Parallels of Parenting
by 1note
Summary: Walter/Chloe, Nite Owl/Silk Spectre. Takes place before "Reunion." How will Nite Owl, Silk Spectre, and the former Rorschach adapt to their new parenthood?
1. Sniffles and Sympathy

**A/N:** This takes place after "Homecoming," but well before "Reunion." I really wanted to fill in part of the ten-year gap between those two stories, but it wasn't until now that I figured out what the plot would be. Nothing too complicated, just seeing how Walter, Dan, and Laurie all cope with parenthood and their own emotional baggage. It should either be interesting or dull as heck. Anyway, this first chapter's kinda brief, but I hope it serves to draw a few readers in. Enjoy!

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters. Nor do I own the works of Lewis Carroll.**

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JUBILATION

Chloe was roused by the feel of the mattress lurching beneath her, signaling the sudden movement of her husband. She didn't bother to open her tired eyes, knowing what they would see after two other nights of the same activity: Walter, sitting up, staring intently at the bedroom door. Across the hall lay their daughter's room. On the nightstand by Walter's side of the bed, the baby monitor emitted the sound of Danielle's steady breathing, only slightly labored due to her congested nose. Beyond that there was only the familiar nighttime creaks and groans of the house settling.

"Walter," Chloe murmured groggily, "go back to sleep."

"Heard something."

"It's your imagination. She's fine." Their infant daughter was finally sleeping the night through after a long battle with a particularly stubborn cold, a fact which filled Chloe and Elsie with grateful relief. But not Walter. He distrusted this apparent improvement in Danielle's health.

He moved to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, bare feet on the carpeted floor. "Going to check."

"No, you're not." More awake now, Chloe rolled onto her back and reached to grab the back of her husband's T-shirt, stalling his efforts to rise from the bed. "You might wake her up again. Let her sleep."

Walter did not try to pull away, but neither did he lie back down. Chloe sympathized with his anxiety. In truth, the first time she heard the baby sneeze an icy worm of fear had crept into her heart. Years of working in the free clinic in New York made her all too familiar of all that could beset small children, especially those who seldom received proper medical care to begin with. Thoughts of various horrific diseases flitted through Chloe's mind. Then she'd looked at Walter, who was also there to hear the baby's little _'choo!_ Saw the naked terror in his expression, and instantly felt her own fears diminish and a more rational perspective rise in their place. "It's okay," she'd told him, "It's just a cold."

But Walter remained unconvinced. In spite of the fact that Danielle's airways stayed relatively clear, her appetite undiminished, and her fever low, the redhead was all but convinced that it was only a matter of time before pneumonia set in. Nighttime was the worst for such fears. During the day he could keep himself occupied, but in the quiet hours when only the wind showed any activity, treacherous thoughts of all the terrible things that could happen to his daughter ran rampant through his mind. The baby monitor was not enough to reassure him. He needed to look at her. It would only take a moment, but once he left her room, he knew the fears would return almost immediately. If it were up to him, Walter would stand vigil over his daughter's crib the entire night, every night, until he was satisfied that she was well again.

Chloe sighed and reluctantly sat up, then inched closer to put her arms around the redhead's tense shoulders. "It's okay, baby," she assured him yet again, "It's only a sniffle. Life's way of helping her build up an immune system."

Walter turned his head. Though the darkness of the bedroom rendered them both as silhouettes, Chloe heard the slight amusement in his voice and was reassured. "'Sniffle'? Is that the proper medical term?"

She grinned. "Absolutely. You can look it up in any medical text, right after 'cooties.'"

Walter made a faint sound of amusement, then immediately sobered. "Anything could happen to her."

"It could," Chloe agreed, kissing his cheek, "But it won't." She kissed his temple, the corner of his mouth. "Everything's gonna be alright. We're okay. Danny's okay."

Walter sighed, leaned back against his wife's reassuring solidity. "Sorry I woke you."

Chloe smiled, hugged him tighter. "'Sokay. It's the weekend. Not like I gotta be at work tomorrow. Or later today, rather," she chuckled softly.

Walter rested his hands over her forearms where they crossed over his chest. "I know it can be difficult…dealing with me like this."

"I understand."

"I need to know she's safe."

Chloe sighed, withdrew her arms. "Don't wake her."

"I won't." Walter rose from the bed, padded silently to the door. Behind him, the bedsprings creaked faintly as Chloe settled back down to try and salvage a little more sleep. Walter felt a stab of guilt, knowing she had to be frustrated with him, and that her frustration would eventually overshadow her compassion. But Walter was unable to stop himself from giving in to his anxieties. He left the bedroom, crossed the hall, footsteps soundless from years of nocturnal prowling, and carefully nudged the door to his daughter's room open so he could peer inside. Outlined by the dim glow of a nightlight, Danielle's tiny form lay in the too-large crib, head turned aside, breath whistling in and out of her petite, slightly clogged nose. Her left arm twitched once, then settled. Her eyelids, with their delicate lashes, fluttered in dreaming. Walter resisted the impulse to enter the room and stand by the crib. If he did that, he knew, he would soon find himself fighting—and losing—the urge to reach in and touch her, to reassure himself that she would not disappear. This would only disturb the infant's slumber, and he didn't want to do that, especially after his promise to Chloe. So he satisfied himself with listening to her steady breaths for a few minutes, then quietly shut the door and crept back to the bedroom he and his wife shared.

Chloe lay motionless on her side, apparently asleep. Walter climbed into bed, careful not to wake her again. But as soon as his head rested on the pillow he heard her murmur, "I really do understand, Walter."

"But you don't worry like I do," he responded, his faintly accusatory tone directed at himself.

A gentle hand rested on his chest. "You worry enough for both of us, sweetheart."

Walter snorted. "Hell, for _ten_." He covered her hand with his own. "Thank you for putting up with me."

"Well, you have your good points." Chloe leaned in to kiss him. "I love you, baby."

"I love you." Walter closed his eyes and tried to push his troubled thoughts aside so sleep could overtake him.

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For once, Chloe actually woke before her husband. She lay still for a moment, watching the rise and fall of Walter's chest, slow and even, savoring the novelty of seeing him sleep, the uncharacteristic peacefulness in his expression. No nightmares this time, thank goodness. From the baby monitor she heard the quicker rhythm of Danny's breaths, signaling that she was awake, but not yet fussing. Chloe eased herself out from under the covers, careful not to wake the slumbering redhead, and quietly left the bedroom. On entering the baby's room, she switched off the baby monitor before approaching the crib. On seeing the familiar smiling face of her mother, the baby's mouth stretched into an elated, toothless grin.

"Hey there, gorgeous," Chloe beamed, reaching to lift out the squirming infant. "Didya have some nice dreams?"

_Gurgle._

"Shh-shh! You don't wanna wake Daddy," she admonished as she carried her daughter to the changing table. "He's had a rough night, poor guy, fretting over you and your silly cold."

Danny cooed and gabbled happily as her mother changed her diaper. Chloe had a feeling the child was going to be a regular chatterbox when she got older. She tickled the baby's tummy, earning a stuttering giggle. _"'Will you walk a little faster?' said a whiting to a snail,"_ Chloe sang, though not too loudly, lest the sound carry across the hall, _"There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail./See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!/They are waiting on the shingle—won't you come and join the dance?"_

She fastened the last snap on the green onesie and lifted the baby into her arms. Strolling across the room towards the door, Chloe swayed back and forth in time to the song. _"Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?/Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"_

"Filling her head with nonsense."

"Jeez!" Chloe stumbled, clutching her daughter who turned her head and squealed in delight at the figure looming in the doorway.

Walter smirked at his wife's startled expression. Chloe straightened, seemingly indignant. "You could've warned me! Shuffled around or something. And it's not nonsense, it's Lewis Carroll."

Walter rolled his eyes, conveying his opinion of the works of that particular author, then stepped closer to his family, his expression softening as his eyes met those of his daughter. "How is she?"

"Fine," Chloe answered, dropping all pretense at annoyance, "Not one sneeze so far."

Which was the perfect moment for Danielle to let out a _'choo!_ Both parents laughed, Chloe relieved that Walter's earlier concerns seemed to have been alleviated with the onset of morning. He got a tissue from the box on the dresser to gently wipe the baby's nose, then tossed it into the wastebasket. Danny gazed at him solemnly with her sea-blue eyes and thrust out her chubby arms towards him. "Adadada!"

"Guess she wants her daddy," Chloe laughed and passed the child to her husband. As always when he cradled the warm little body, Walter felt a surge of emotions, joy and love of such intensity they almost brought tears to his eyes. Smiling tenderly, he nuzzled the top of Danielle's downy head, her wispy auburn curls tickling his face. He met his wife's gaze. "I know I overreacted."

Chloe shrugged. "Lots of first-time parents overreact." She didn't say, especially parents with troubled pasts. And troubled didn't begin to describe Walter's past. It left him with the unfortunate knowledge of how tenuous his happy new life was. Unfortunate, because it overshadowed even the most joyous experiences. Being aware of this did nothing to reduce his worries.

Chloe reached out to rest her palm against her husband's cheek. "I get scared, too." She had also suffered after the loss of Byron, her first husband.

Walter nodded, understanding, grateful for her sympathy.

The mood abruptly changed when Danny patted her father's other cheek with her little hand, skin rasping against his bristles. "Aag!" The two adults smiled.

As they headed out the door, Walter lightly jiggling the cheerful infant in his arms, Chloe leaned over the baby and resumed the interrupted song. _"You can really have no notion how delightful it will be/When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!/But the snail replied 'Too far, too far!' and gave a look askance—/Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance…"_

Walter rolled his eyes and sighed theatrically, an action that earned him a grin from his wife, who continued relentlessly. _"…'What matters it how far we go?' his scaly friend replied./There is another shore, you know, upon the other side./The further off from England and the nearer is to France—/Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance./Will you, won't you, will you, won't you…"_

They descended the stairs, following the welcoming scents emanating from the kitchen.

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NEW YORK

Laurie slouched in the living room sofa staring balefully at the television, enveloped in a frumpy terrycloth bathrobe, puffy slippers on her feet, a box of tissues beside her. Her nose was red and raw from constant wiping. Laurie hated being sick. She hated being stuck at home even more, especially with Dan running around as Nite Owl on his own. If it were just her, she would have gone out on patrol, cold or no cold. But it wasn't just her. She rested a hand on her belly. There was very little sign of her pregnancy for the time being, but that would change soon enough. When she told Dan of her pregnancy, after the initial elated jumping around, they had one of the biggest arguments of their still-new marriage over whether or not she should hang up her mask. Laurie was adamant that she would continue patrolling until she began to show. She understood perfectly well the risks, but felt that she could handle them as always, whereas Dan thought she had no business putting their baby's life in danger as well as her own. They finally worked out a compromise: Laurie would continue her activities as Silk Spectre wearing a Kevlar vest until her second trimester, and _then_ she would take an extended leave of absence from crimefighting. But then she went and caught this damned cold!

Laurie felt another sneeze coming on and quickly snatched another tissue from the box. _"Achoo!"_ No delicate little sneezes for her; the sound which came out was frighteningly explosive, after which she blew her nose in a long, drawn out honk. The tissues were the kind with lotion in them, which was supposed to make them less abrasive, but after days of continuous wiping, the things felt as rough as sandpaper against the inflamed skin of her nose. She half expected to see blood at some point.

The phone rang. It could only be one person. Laurie sighed, tossed the spent tissue in the general direction of the wastebasket, muted the TV, and picked up the receiver from the end table beside her. "Hello?"

_"How are you, cupcake?"_ the dulcet tones of Sally Jupiter emanated from the receiver, _"Still got the sniffles?"_

"Hi, Mom." Laurie pulled out another tissue. "Yeah, still suffering."

The older woman made a few sympathetic sounds. Laurie could imagine her lounging in her bed at the retirement home wearing one of those godawful satin nighties that would've looked far better on someone about forty years younger (and almost as many pounds slimmer). _"I remember when I was pregnant with you,"_ Sally began as she always did lately ever since she found out she was going to be a grandmother, _"I used to get these awful migraines, and the worst part was I couldn't take anything for them that wouldn't have harmed you! I tell you, labor couldn't come fast enough when one of those head-splitters knocked me down."_

Laurie rolled her eyes, grateful the expression couldn't be seen. Sally commiserating with her seemed ten times worse than her nagging about taking on the masked adventurer legacy. Laurie loved her mother dearly, but the woman drove her nuts! At least this long-distance relationship allowed her to deal with Sally in small doses.

She and Dan did try living in LA for a while, but after a few months the homesickness became too much for them to handle. Neither of them ever expected to miss New York as much as they did. So, despite the risk of capture even with their false identities, they went back. It wasn't easy finding a place with a large enough basement that they could convert into a new lair for Archie and all the rest of their equipment, but somehow they managed.

_"Guess what,"_ Sally continued, shaking the younger woman from her reverie, _"I was rummaging around in some old storage boxes and you'll never guess what I found."_

"What?" Laurie asked, curious in spite of herself.

_"Your old copy of _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_! Remember when I used to read that to you?"_

Laurie remembered her mother reading to her _once_, and that was just the first couple of chapters. She ended up finishing the book on her own.

_"I have an idea. Put the phone against your stomach so I can read something to my grandbaby."_

Laurie snorted. "Mother, the baby's the size of a coffee bean. She won't hear a thing."

To which the old woman stiffly retorted, _"She _or_ he would benefit from a little classic literature, regardless of size. C'mon, honey. Indulge your mother."_

"Okay," she sighed, then pressed the receiver to her abdomen. The things she let her mother talk her into.

Sally's tinny voice still managed to reach her ears. _"'How doth the little crocodile/Improve his shining tail,/And pour the waters of the Nile/On every golden scale!'"_

"'How cheerfully he seems to grin,'" Laurie murmured, surprised that she remembered the silly rhyme after so many years, "'How neatly spreads his claws,/And welcomes little fishes in,/With gently smiling jaws.' That's morbid," she suddenly realized. Did she really want her kid listening to that? _Don't be stupid,_ she chided herself. It wasn't like he/she could hear anything. At least, Laurie didn't think so. She wasn't quite as sure as before. She brought the receiver back to her ear. "Had your fun?"

_"Oh, I can't wait till that little guy's born!"_

"So you can spoil him rotten?"

_"Well, what are grandmothers for?"_

Laurie chuckled. "Guess you got me there." She sniffed. Damn cold.

_"Feel better, sweetheart,"_ said her mother, sensing it was time to give her a break, _"Drink lots of orange juice."_

"Yes, Mom, I will," Laurie replied, her tone put-out even though she was smiling, "'Bye. Love you."

_"I love you, too. Take care."_

Laurie hung up the phone, but left the television muted. She stared down at her belly, wondering what kind of person she might be bringing into the world, hoping she wouldn't do too much damage with what was certain to be some inept parenting. _Am I doing the right thing,_ she wondered, _wanting to be a mom while still running around in a costume getting shot at by gangs and other costumed freaks?_ Retirement would definitely be safer, but it would also drive her stir-crazy. Like her mother. She thought about her own unusual upbringing. The isolation, the pressures to take on the mantle of Silk Spectre, the loneliness. Her brooding got in the way of whatever joy or excitement she should have experienced as an expectant parent, though in truth Dan was excited enough for both of them. "I'm gonna be a dad!" he whooped when she told him and proceeded to scoop her up in his arms and spin around until they were both dizzy. Laurie laughed at the time, but even then she was…well…scared. _I'm not ready for this._ Maybe she never would be.


	2. Heroes and Worshipers

**A/N:** Okay, I think I'm getting into the swing of things. Let me know what you think. A little encouragement never hurt. :-)

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**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

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NEW YORK

Nite Owl chased after the mugger, huffing all the way. What a time for Archie to be laid up for repairs! The vigilante wasn't a young man any more, and even in his prime he hadn't been much of a runner. He fumbled at his belt, extracted a small bola from one of its many compartments. He twirled the bola over his head. Better hope his aim was good. He threw. The weighted rope coiled about one of the running man's legs, causing him to stumble but not fall. Damn! And Nite Owl's second wind was running out. But then as the mugger approached a narrow alley a second figure materialized from the side of one of the ancient brick buildings as if by magic and slammed a meaty fist into the oncoming mugger's nose. There was a wet crunch and the man went down in a gush of blood. Nite Owl skidded to a halt, leaned over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. "Thanks," he wheezed, "Almost got aw—"

"Kiss off, Hooter!" the second figure snarled, "This's _my_ block!"

Nite Owl groaned. It just _had_ to be Stonewall, the most belligerent of the new masks. The man possessed all the brutality of the late Comedian with none of the (albeit twisted) humor. His armor-plated costume was painted—rather cleverly, the older vigilante had to admit—to resemble the aged brickwork which was prevalent in this neighborhood, which enabled the muscle-bound man to blend into his surroundings and ambush his quarry at any given moment. Stonewall was a goliath among men whose fearsome reputation all but eliminated the criminal element on his city block. Too bad the guy was such a jerk.

"Easy, man," Nite Owl held up both hands in a placating gesture, "I was just chasing the guy and lost track of where we were heading. No disrespect intended."

The larger man snorted with a sound like a bull about to charge. "Yeah, sure. You'n your damn Silk Stalking," his voice sneered over the deliberate slur of the Silk Spectre's name, "Think you both own the goddamn city just 'cause your older'n the rest of us? Think you're better 'cause you spent more time in the mask?"

"Of course not!" Nite Owl denied, irritated by the other's petulance, "Spectre and I might have more experience, but _all_ the masks have skills to contribute. We're all doing what we can to make the city safer."

"Gawd, that's sweet!" Stonewall chuckled maliciously, "You should write for Hallmark, man.

Really."

The older mask sighed. "Fine, just let me haul this guy off and I'll be out of your hair."

"Haul 'im where?"

"To the police. Where else?"

"What th' hell for?" Stonewall exclaimed in genuine puzzlement, "Let's just off 'im here."

Nite Owl gaped, shocked in spite of his knowledge of the man's reputation. "I'm not gonna kill him! That would make us no better than the guys we're fighting." _Like Rorschach._ The uncharitable thought towards his long-dead former partner brought a wave of guilt.

"Fer chrissakes! I'll do it if you don't got the balls." The massive figure turned and lumbered towards the still-woozy mugger.

"Stonewall, don't!" Nite Owl darted ahead, interposed himself between the younger vigilante and his prey. "I can't let you do this."

_Snort._ "Please!" The larger man raised an arm to knock the elder mask aside—

And a black arrow swooped down to bury itself in the mugger's foot, toppling him mid-stride as he tried to make a getaway from the distracted vigilantes. _"Aah! Christ!"_ he screeched, gripping his wounded appendage at the ankle.

"Th' hell?" Stonewall craned his thick neck to squint at the darkness above. A shadow dropped lightly from a fire escape to effortlessly land upon the pavement. It straightened, strolled towards the two startled masks and the downed criminal. A black longbow was strapped across its back along with a long, tubular quiver filled with yet more black arrows, feathered plumes bristling. Nite Owl's eyes widened in amazement. This was one of at least two (that were known of) masked adventurers dubbed by the media as the Headhunters, though the few people who actually had a chance to talk to them said they referred to themselves as the Archer and the Bowman. They spent their nights hunting the ever-prolific Knot-Tops—literally hunting them like wild game, though rarely killing them—taking their topknots as trophies to hang from their belts. Some speculated they competed against each other to see how many knots they collected each night, a concept that Nite Owl found rather gruesome.

If anything, the newcomer's sudden appearance enraged Stonewall further. "Hey, fuck you, man! This's a private goddamn dispute!"

_"There are more constructive ways for masks to compete,"_ the new arrival spoke in a way that managed to fill the entire alley without raising his voice above a whisper. It reminded Nite Owl of Rorschach's harsh rasp; a dull monotone, devoid of emotion. The Headhunter strode to the whimpering mugger. With calm efficiency he pinned the man down, bound his wrists with a plastic tie. He then drew a razor-sharp dagger from a leg sheath and, with a couple of practiced cuts and ignoring the fresh cries of pain, freed his arrow from the criminal's foot, which he then replaced inside his quiver. He wiped the blade clean on the mugger's pant leg, sheathed it, and straightened to regard the other two masks with cold brown eyes. Stonewall and Nite Owl gaped at him, too astonished by what they'd witnessed to speak. The Headhunter was smaller than the other two expected, hardly taller than Nite Owl's shoulder. Yet he carried himself with a careless strength that gave one pause; a languid panther who could easily knock their foolish heads from their shoulders. _"You distract yourselves with pettiness."_

"Shut up," Stonewall growled, sullen, "'S none of your business."

_"None of this was our business, until we made it so."_ The Headhunter's eyes were dark and inscrutable.

"Hell with this," the huge man grumbled and turned away, his interest in the argument waned. He ambled off with the inexplicable grace so many large men possessed and soon vanished amongst the brickwork that was his namesake.

Nite Owl went to kneel beside the downed criminal and check his wound. There was a great deal of blood, but it was already clotting. No need for a tourniquet. He looked up at the silent vigilante. The Headhunter's costume wasn't solid black, as Nite Owl had assumed, but was rather mottled with various shades of gray in a style that reminded the other mask of military camouflage.

"Thanks for stepping in." Even though it was a tad on the dramatic side, he thought. "Er, which one are you?"

_"I am the Archer,"_ he replied in a tone that was anything but friendly, _"Your thanks are wasted. My actions did __nothing. Tomorrow two other masks will argue."_

"It doesn't have to be that way," Nite Owl said, straightening. He towered over the smaller vigilante, yet felt the force of the shadowy figure's personality loom over him. "We could all work together. Organize."

_"Like the Watchmen?"_ Archer scoffed quietly, _"Never work. We're all too strong-willed, too wrapped up in our own agendas."_

"Worked for me and Rorschach."

_"Not for long."_ It was true. Nite Owl's partnership with the notoriously brutal vigilante lasted a few years, then Rorschach inexplicably withdrew from his fellow mask to pursue a far darker path. Nite Owl never understood why this happened, though he knew it had something to do with that kidnapping case he was on just before his abrupt desire to isolate himself. Considering how extreme his methods became, and what they brought him to, Nite Owl wasn't sure he wanted to understand.

"How else can we keep the city safe?"

An elegant shrug. _"You assume that's what we all want, but it isn't."_

Nite Owl frowned. "Isn't it what you want?"

_"No."_

"Then what?"

Headhunter took a step back into the shadows. _"To play the game for as long as I can."_ He vanished into the alley's murk without a sound.

Nite Owl sighed, "Great, another psychopath."

"I need a doctor, man!" the all-but-forgotten mugger cried, "I'm dyin'!"

"You're not dying," the masked hero snapped, bending down to hoist the injured man over his shoulder and wishing once again for a functional Owlship. He was in for a long walk.

* * *

JUBILATION

Alvin wielded the plastic scissors with practiced care, the tip of his tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth, the space between his eyes crinkled in a frown of concentration. _Snip…snip._ The grainy black and white photo fell free of the newspaper. He picked it up, lay it face down on the tabletop. Setting aside his scissors, he reached for the jar of paste with the lid already loosened. Lifting out the built-in brush clotted with whitish nontoxic glue, Alvin smeared a generous dollop on the back of the cutout picture, replaced the brush in the jar, then carefully lifted the rectangle of newsprint by the corners and maneuvered it to the composition notebook he had opened to a blank page. With utmost delicacy the boy lay the picture glue-side down onto the page, then pressed his little hands against it to be sure the paste took hold. When he removed his hands a moment later, the face of Nite Owl stared back at him. The caption beneath the image read: **Nite Owl Flying Solo? What's Become Of The Silk Spectre? **The story Alvin clipped it from was about Silk Spectre's unexplained absence from the world of crimefighting. There was no shortage of speculations, most of which Alvin remained ignorant of, as he was only just learning how to read. But he liked the picture. His composition notebook with its mottled black-and-white cardboard cover and wide-ruled pages was filled with images of superheroes taken from a variety of magazines and newspapers. More than a few of those in his collection were pictures of Rorschach, who everybody outside Jubilation believed was dead.

Movement at the corner of his eye made Alvin turn his head in a quick, startled jerk. Fallon, his daddy, stood in the kitchen doorway, hands in the pockets of his faded corduroys. Father and son eyed each other uncertainly for a long, uncomfortable moment. Finally, Fallon said, "Put your stuff away. It's time ta go."

Alvin nodded meekly and began to gather up his craft supplies, tossing the scraps of newspaper into the trashcan. Things were easier with Mama around to act as a buffer, but with her in Lovettesville's hospital getting some new kind of surgery to help her walk better, there was nothing between Alvin and his father except the painful memory of what happened more than a year ago which left Mama crippled. Not long after Walter Kovacs came to Jubilation, Fallon suffered an alcoholic relapse and beat his wife Olivia almost to death. A panicked Alvin had run away from the horrific scene, and with Olivia comatose and Fallon unable to remember what he'd done, blame for the incident fell on the former masked vigilante. It was the darkest moment in the small town's recent memory, leaving behind scars of deep-seated guilt. But in the end, Alvin was found, Olivia survived—albeit damaged, and Fallon shouldered the responsibility for his terrible mistake, leaving Walter free and clear and able to make a new life for himself in Jubilation.

Fallon and Alvin had wanted to go with Olivia when she got her surgery, but Fallon couldn't afford to miss work and Alvin had school. Neither of them could go, so they stayed home, unable to speak to each other beyond the most superficial exchanges. But today was the Sunday social, a welcome respite for them both. Once Alvin's things were put away, they both threw on their jackets and piled into the car. The short drive to the community center was broken only by the tinny country music emanating from the radio. It was a great relief for them both when the simple brick building came into view. No sooner did Fallon pull into a parking spot than Alvin leapt from the car and dashed for the community center's front door. The interior was a forest of adult bodies, all milling around, chatting and gesticulating. The six-year-old craned his neck in hopes of catching a glimpse of red hair, but there was only Deb Blascoe holding court with the other Hens. Disappointed, Alvin headed for the large buffet table that dominated the center of the room and grabbed himself a brownie. He did not notice his father's entrance, nor the man's somber eyes watching over him.

Minutes later, the main door opened to admit the motley group that was Walter and his family. Danielle peered around the crowded room from the crook of her father's arm, bundled in a heavy coat and furry booties. Her little face lit up when a tall, broad man swooped in and lifted her high above his head, bearded face split in a broad grin. "Danny-girl!" Craig Danvers bellowed, spinning about so the infant screeched with delight. "Who's my favorite honorary niece, huh? Who's my girl? _You_ are, that's who! Oh, hi, Walt."

Walter's mouth quirked. "Hello, Craig. Can I have my daughter back?"

"In a minute. Sheesh," the burly man declared to the giggling infant in his arms, "He's so possessive!"

"Oh, let the guy have some fun, Walt," Elsie chided her nephew-in-law, "Nobody's ever this excited to see him."

"Hey!" Craig drew himself up in mock-umbrage, resembling a flannel-clad grizzly bear.

Walter considered pressing the point by reaching for the baby, but hesitated. What was he so worried about? Craig was his best man at his wedding, for heaven's sake! He was one of the first people Walter learned to trust in this town, and he would never allow any harm to come to Danielle, however remote the possibility.

_But she's mine,_ said a small, petty voice in his head. Walter immediately shoved it to the back of his mind. "Careful taking her outside. She's just gotten over her cold."

"No problem," Craig grinned, then turned and strode off, Danielle peering over her shoulder and waving bye-bye to her parents. "C'mon, Danny. Let's go play in some traffic!"

"Oh, ha ha!" Chloe shouted sarcastically after him. She looked at her husband, nudged his shoulder gently. "Hey."

Walter mustered a smile for her. "I'm alright."

"I know," she responded, as if this were obvious. She linked her arm with his. "Come on. Let's get the socializing over with so you can go hide out on the playground."

"I don't _hide_," he protested at the same instant that he glimpsed Bess Everton wending a path towards them. Oh no.

"_Wal_ter!" the older woman squeaked, grabbing hold of his other arm in a light, yet almost unbreakable grip, "Have you heard the news?"

Walter didn't even try to look for help from his wife or Elsie, knowing they were far too busy being amused by his discomfort. Why couldn't Bess keep her hands to herself? "News?"

The local beautician leaned in close to deliver her newly acquired knowledge in a loud whisper utilized by experienced gossipmongers everywhere. "The Silk Spectre's broken it off with Nite Owl."

Walter frowned, startled. "What?"

"It's all over the papers," Bess continued excitedly, "Nobody's seen her in _days_. Nite Owl's been runnin' around the city all by himself!"

The redhead's scowl deepened. He wasn't sure what bothered him more, the fact that Bess Everton knew this before him, or that he actually cared for the rumors of what went on between those two. He hadn't exactly been thrilled when he found out about the budding relationship between his former partner and the waspish Laurie Juspeczyk, and never thought it had a chance in hell of lasting. But now that it appeared to be over, he wasn't sure what to think.

"Now, Bess," Elsie interjected, "You should know better than ta draw conclusions from such feeble evidence. Maybe she's just got the flu or something."

Bess snorted at the very thought that a superhero could get ill like common mortals. Having a retired masked adventurer in town seemed to have triggered an obsession in her. Not a week went by that she didn't assault Walter with the info she'd gathered from the various news broadcasts and periodicals (many of the supermarket tabloid variety) about the growing number of costumed vigilantes tearing through the major cities. And while Walter was interested in how his fellow former Watchmen were doing in their renewed crimefighting activities, he really didn't want to know every sordid detail and speculation of every mask's life, especially if it came from Bess's mouth.

"There's some say she's been runnin' with that Headhunter fella," she added conspiratorially.

"Oh, really? Which one?" Chloe spoke up, immediately drawing the older woman's attention towards her. As his arm was released and he quickly made his escape, Walter cast a grateful I-owe-you look at his wife. Chloe, eyes already beginning to glaze under Bess's chattering onslaught, threw back a damn-right-you-do look.

Elsie shook her head and grinned at the passing redhead. "She's too good for you, Walt."

"I know," he sighed. He sought refuge in a quiet corner, eyes scanning the crowd from long habit. There was Craig, Danielle's little fingers tangled in his beard, chatting up Henry Dobbins and his pregnant wife Cecelia. A short ways off Henry's father Zane flirted good-naturedly with Deb Blascoe. Well, there was no accounting for taste. Meanwhile Vernon Birdsong, the local pastor, was in a heated debate with half a dozen men and women, perhaps regarding the topic of his sermon earlier that morning, whatever that might've been.

Movement from the corner of his eye caught Walter's attention. He turned his head, saw the familiar figure of Alvin Harrison weaving a path through the taller adults. Walter smiled. He liked Alvin. The boy had accepted him from the start, never questioning his right to live in this peaceful little town. "Hello, Alvin."

"Hi," the child grinned up at him, teeth brilliant white against his dark complexion. "Guess what?"

Walter knelt so that they could more easily meet each other's eyes. "What?"

Alvin practically jumped up and down with excitement. "We're havin' a reading day at school tomorrow!"

"Oh?" Walter's tone conveyed that he had no idea what that meant, but was willing to learn. He was the only adult Alvin knew who could do that without sounding condescending.

"Yeah! We're just gonna read books all day, an' we get ta wear our peejays an' bring our own snacks, just like a sleepover!"

Walter couldn't help but smile at the boy's enthusiasm. "Sounds like fun."

"Yeah," Alvin nodded, "'Cept I dunno what I want ta read."

Walter hesitated. "Maybe your father can help you choose." As he expected, Alvin's expression morphed from eager anticipation to gloom. The boy lowered his gaze and shrugged. Walter glanced past him to where Fallon hovered a short distance away, watching them converse. There was no hostility or jealousy in the other man's expression, only sad resignation. Since becoming a father, Walter found himself empathizing with the man all the more; a strange thing for someone who once considered compassion to be a weakness. "I'm sure he would appreciate you asking," he tried again.

"Don' wanna ask him," Alvin mumbled. None could blame him for distancing himself from his father. Rorschach would have said Fallon deserved to be shunned by his child, and worse. But Walter understood what happened that terrible night was all a mistake, resulting from carelessness and a weakness of character, that Fallon would spend his life atoning for. And that was the important part; he was trying to atone.

But how to explain this to a six-year-old boy?

"Alvin," he hesitated, "You know what I did before I came here?"

The child nodded. "You were a superhero."

Something flickered across the redhead's expression that made the little boy frown in puzzlement. "No, Alvin," he replied softly, "Not a hero. I did bad things as Rorschach. Even worse than your father."

"But…" Alvin shook his head, "You stopped the bad guys."

Walter didn't know why he pressed on. Maybe he wanted to explain how little difference there was between him and the men he once hunted. Or maybe he could no longer bear the hero-worship he saw in the boy's eyes. "Alvin, what your father did to your mother is the same thing I did to other men I thought were bad. The difference is your father only did it once, because he got drunk and lost control. I did it every night, for years, because I _liked_ it. I liked hurting them. Liked making them scream and beg for their lives." He swallowed, ashamed of the growing fear he saw in the child's dark eyes. "Does that sound like a hero?"

Alvin's chin began to tremble. "But they were _bad guys_," he insisted, not wanting to believe.

Walter sadly shook his head. "Not all of them were bad." _Please,_ a voice rose in his memory, _Please…my wife, she's sick. I-I just needed the money t' get her medicine. Please! Don't!_

Alvin, eyes welling with tears, abruptly turned away and hurried towards the back exit leading to the playground, retreating before the pedestal he'd built up beneath his hero crumbled away completely. Walter straightened from his crouch, wondering if what he said did more harm than good. He met Fallon's expressionless gaze, then watched as the silent man followed his son outside.

Fallon found Alvin on the swing set, swinging listlessly back and forth. Fallon stood beside the metal structure, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the view beyond the chain-link fence. After a few minutes, he asked in a quiet voice, "You wanna head on home?"

Alvin sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and nodded.

"Alright, then." He started for the gate leading directly to the parking lot. His ears picked up the faint crunch-crunch of small feet on gravel as Alvin wordlessly trailed behind him.

"What's wrong?" Chloe asked, picking up on her husband's mood the moment he approached her. After twenty-odd minutes of agony listening to Bess's rambling, Chloe finally managed to escape by making a bathroom run. Once she figured she'd been in there long enough for the beautician to find some other victim, she'd returned to the bustling social only to find herself confronted with a despondent husband.

Walter shook his head. "Tell you later."

Chloe nodded, accepting that whatever was bothering him was too private for their current surroundings. "You ready to go home, then? Or do you think you can stand a few more minutes in a crowd?"

Walter mustered a faint smile. "Can handle it a while longer." He scanned the surrounding faces. "Where's Danielle?"

"Elsie got her back from Craig. She's over there showing her off to the Hens." She pointed towards the cluster of cooing gray heads.

Walter groaned. "We'll never get her back from them." Indeed, from the look of things, Danny wouldn't want to leave, surrounded as she was by doting grandmotherly types. The baby looked as if her face might split, so broad was her smile.

Chloe laughed. "It's our own fault for having such a darn cute baby."

Walter smiled for a moment, but the expression gradually waned. "Chloe," he hesitated, "Am I a good father to her?"

His wife looked at him, surprised by the question. "No."

Walter stared at her, stricken.

Chloe smiled. "You're a wonderful father to her." She kissed his stubbled cheek.

Walter felt his throat tighten. He smiled at her, then took her hand in his. Chloe gave his hand a squeeze and the two of them turned back to the sight of their daughter surrounded by her fond admirers.


	3. Risks and Choices

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

* * *

JUBILATION

The weather steadily warmed. Walter was glad of it; there was more for him to do in warm weather, plus he could take Danielle outside and keep her in her playpen while he worked in the yard or the garden. It wasn't as if he didn't trust Elsie to take good care of her; Walter just sometimes felt anxious if he didn't have his baby in view. In moments of introspection, he worried that he might stifle his daughter with overprotectiveness. For now, while she was still an infant, it was fine, but what about when she got older? He could well imagine Danielle growing into an active, independent little girl who would soon become resentful of her troublesome father.

_Stop it,_ he chided himself. Chloe was right; he worried too much.

In her playpen, Danny stood leaning against the padded top rail, watching her father yank out last year's dead vines and stalks with solemn eyes. Walter smiled and felt his heart lift as she grinned in return. She then clamped her mouth over the padding. Walter wondered if she might be starting to teethe.

"Walt!" Elsie called from the porch, "Zane's on the phone. He wants ta talk to you."

The redhead frowned in puzzlement. "Coming." He stood, dusted his hands off on his faded jeans, and headed for the playpen. Danny reached her chubby arms out to him with a gurgle of anticipation. Walter smiled. "There's my girl." He lifted her out, kissed her cheek, and walked with her to the house. Inside, he handed her off to Elsie and went to the kitchen where the phone awaited. The receiver rested on a small table that stood beneath its wall cradle. Frowning at the tangled mess of the cord, Walter picked up the receiver and uttered a gruff "Hello."

"Hey, Walt," Zane Dobbins's melodious voice called out, "You remember that dead tree out behind my house?"

Walter grunted; Zane had been complaining about that tree all winter, worried that it might topple onto his house.

"Well, now that it's finally warmed up 'round here I was wonderin' if ya might come by this Saturday an' help me dispose of it. I ain't as young as I used ta be an' I might just lop off my own foot if I try this on my own. There'll be one 'r two other fellas ta help," he was quick to add.

Walter considered. The tree was a massive old elm. Sizable though it was, with two or three men working on it, it probably wouldn't take more than a day to fell and cut up. Besides, Elsie and Chloe were always admonishing him to get more involved with the neighbors. "Alright."

"Great! Uh, one more thing, though," Walter detected the older man's hesitation, "Fallon's gonna be one o' th' other men."

The redhead pursed his lips. His grip tightened on the receiver. "He knows you're asking me?"

"Yeah. Says he's willin' ta work with ya, if you are."

The last time he saw Fallon was at the last Sunday social, when he'd upset little Alvin with his harsh honesty. Given their history, neither man was certain of each other's company, and they had never spent the amount of time together that would occur if they both helped Zane with his tree.

What should he say? He knew what Rorschach would have said.

"I'll be there." Was that a sigh of relief he heard on the other end of the line?

"Alright, then. See ya this Saturday." They agreed to a time, said their goodbyes. Walter hung the phone on its cradle, his brow creased in a troubled frown. Was this a mistake?

He found Elsie seated on the living room floor playing with Danielle. She jangled a set of colorful plastic keys in front of the baby, who laughed and reached out to grab them. A minor tug-o-war ensued with Danny the victor. She beamed and waved her prize about. _Clitter-clatter._

Glimpsing her nephew-in-law from the corner of her eyes, Elsie turned. "I think she's about to start teethin'."

Walter nodded. Kneeling, he smiled and stroked his daughter's wispy hair. Danny beamed, held up the plastic keys to show them off.

"So," Elsie ventured, "What'd Zane want?"

Walter told her. He also mentioned Fallon. Elsie looked concerned. "Sure you're up for it?"

Walter drew himself up in mock offense. "Handled worse. I can take care of myself."

The old woman smirked. "I know. Indulge an old lady's need t' mother you." She often said that whenever Chloe was exasperated with her. Walter never felt exasperated, though he pretended otherwise. Truthfully, he needed a little mothering to make up for all the years of neglect.

"Wish you were my mother," he said suddenly, surprising them both.

Elsie blinked. "Oh…" Her expression softened. She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "That's the sweetest thing you ever said to me, Walt," she smiled, eyes gleaming, "I'd've been thrilled ta have you for a son."

"Really?" That single word came out so quiet and uncertain it could easily have been missed. A rare moment when he allowed his vulnerability to show.

Elsie gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Really."

He stared at her for a heartbeat, then nodded, his habitual blank expression already falling back into place. He picked up his daughter, still clutching her plastic keys, helped the old woman to her feet, then headed back outside without another word. He didn't trust his voice at that moment.

* * *

NEW YORK

Laurie fastened the last strap on her Kevlar vest with a resigned sigh. Dan had gotten her the latest in protective body armor, less bulky than its predecessors, its outer fabric patterned after her costume. Still a pain in the ass to wear, though. She didn't have quite the same freedom of movement with it on, and in her line of work, even the smallest handicap could prove deadly. But considering that she was now protecting for two, what other option did she have?

_You could retire,_ her traitorous mind suggested. Laurie scowled. There was a time when retirement seemed so good. Then came the Keene Act to make the choice for her, and suddenly it didn't seem like such a great thing. Laurie hated having decisions made for her. It was something she had to endure throughout her childhood. From the moment Laurie was born Sally Jupiter had done everything she could to indoctrinate her. She called it a legacy, but Laurie knew it was just her wanting to live vicariously through her younger, stronger daughter. It caused years of bitterness between them that they were only just learning to get past.

_I won't make the same mistake,_ she promised herself. When her child was born she would do everything she could to keep him or her distant from masked adventuring. Even if it meant retirement.

"You ready?"

Laurie looked up at her husband's voice. Daniel stood in full Nite Owl regalia, his cowl pushed back like a hood to leave his head bare. There was something about seeing Nite Owl with Daniel Dreiberg's bespectacled head that never stopped being funny.

"Yeah. Just a sec." She picked up her mask, slipped it on. Dan did the same with his own mask, and the pair of them boarded the waiting Owlship.

A new gang had surfaced over the last few months, an offshoot of the Knot-Tops calling themselves Queues. More vicious than their predecessors, they were steadily infringing on Knot-Top territories. Authorities feared that the situation would soon escalate into an all-out gang war which would put many innocent lives in jeopardy. Dan remembered a gang war he and Rorschach tried to break up years ago. They eventually succeeded, but not before dozens of bystanders—some of them families—were caught in the crossfire. It was a horrific experience that Daniel didn't relish the thought of repeating.

While he piloted Archie, Laurie turned up the volume on the police scanner. There was a minor skirmish between a group of Knot-Tops and Queues a little over a mile away. It was in a bad neighborhood, which meant the cops weren't likely to be in a hurry to get there. "Time to go to work." Nite Owl set a course.

Far below, also headed towards the fray, two lithe silhouettes leapt from rooftop to rooftop, as silent and agile as cats. Both wore special boots, thin-soled and without treads, to grip the irregular masonry and conceal any distinguishing marks from the authorities. Both carried bows and quivers strapped across their backs. Bowman and Archer, the Headhunters, out to gather trophies.

It was not long before all the masks converged on the scene. Twenty-odd men and a few women were locked in battle. Both groups bore only a superficial resemblance to each other: whereas the Knot-Tops tied back their hair in the style of ancient Japanese samurais, the Queues shaved their heads completely bald except for a single long plait down the back, as the Chinese once did. The symbols on their clothing, likewise, were Chinese rather than Japanese.

The battle was a vicious one; several members of both groups lay motionless on the ground. Some of them would never move again. While both gangs carried guns, most preferred to stick with the more up-close weapons such as chains, knives, and lengths of pipe. One Queue wielded a baseball bat that bristled with tenpenny nails, swinging it at his foes with gory efficiency. So caught up were they all in their violence that none of them noticed the Owlship swooping in until its lower hatch hissed open to disgorge its two passengers. Nite Owl landed amidst a group of combatants—three Queues, two Knot-tops—and commenced to laying out the startled gang members with a series of efficient kicks and punches. The Silk Spectre, meanwhile, focused her attention on the man with the spiked club. Her pulse raced with excitement; this was her first night back on the job since she got over her cold. She couldn't even bring herself to feel guilty over her enjoyment as she shattered the man's nose with a quick elbow jab and broke his wrist with a hard twist of the arm. The bloodied baseball bat clattered at her feet, followed soon after by the Queue who choked from a hard punch to the throat.

Silk Spectre turned and her fierce grin faltered as she found herself staring down the barrel of a gun. In the strange elastic quality of subjective time, she just had time to think: _Damn, I'm losing my edge_. No sooner did the words form in her mind than a narrow blur whipped down to strike the Knot-Top in the arm. He skewed, his finger squeezed convulsively on the trigger, and Silk Spectre felt a giant punch her in the stomach.

"Laurie!" Nite Owl cried, seeing his wife fall. He ran towards the still-standing Knot-Top, but before he reached him a second black arrow whooshed down and buried itself in the man's neck.

Perched upon a second story ledge without fear of its precariousness, the Bowman quickly nocked another arrow and sent it down to intercept a Queue who nearly stabbed the distracted Nite Owl as he ran past. From another ledge, the Archer shot down a Knot-Top before he could draw his gun on the distressed mask. Missiles rained down, clearing a path for Nite Owl as he rushed to his wife's side. Silk Spectre managed to sit up before he reached her. "I'm okay," she wheezed, hands clamped to her stomach, "Vest stopped the bullet."

Nite Owl crouched beside her. "The baby."

Laurie's eyes widened. "Oh, god. Y-You don't think—"

A loud roar interrupted their panic. The two masks each jumped aside in opposite directions, narrowly avoiding a heavy length of chain swung by a grimacing Queue. A behemoth of a man, his left eyebrow was pierced by a safety pin. He was about to lash out with the chain again when Nite Owl, no longer in the mood to play fair, brought out his emergency taser and fired it at the gang member, toppling the huge man and leaving him convulsing on the ground.

Ignoring the pain in her abdomen, Silk Spectre returned to the fighting, followed by her husband.

Bowman, out of arrows, shouldered his bow and vaulted from the ledge, landing with casual grace onto the pavement below. From his belt he drew out two cylindrical devices. With a flick of each wrist, two batons periscoped out. _Click-click!_ Across the street, the Archer did likewise, and the two of them joined Nite Owl and Silk Spectre in mopping up the rest of the gang members. In a few swift, brutal minutes, it was all over.

Panting from their exertions, Dan and Laurie hurried to each other. "You okay?" Dan asked, voice thick with worry.

Laurie nodded. Her hands rested against her aching middle. "Doesn't hurt that bad." Neither one of them spoke of the fear they had for her pregnancy.

"We'd better get you to the Medic." Nite Owl pressed the control on his wristband to summon Archie.

Ignoring the couple's drama, the two Headhunters stowed their batons and each drew a wicked knife from a leg sheathe. They set about retrieving their arrows, distinguished by their fletchings—one white stripe for the Bowman, two for the Archer—and cutting the topknots and braids from the men and women they'd shot. Laurie couldn't help but stare. "They always do that?"

Dan glanced at them. "Yeah. Apparently, they like to keep score." The Owlship settled to the ground, its side hatch opened. The couple boarded without a word to the other two masks, knowing their thanks would not be acknowledged. Once Archie sped off, the Headhunters came up with their final tallies.

_"Twelve,"_ Bowman declared in an eerie whisper devoid of emotion. The severed ponytails dangled from his belt like wolf tails collected for bounty.

The Archer straightened, returned the last retrieved arrow to its quiver. _"Fifteen."_

The Bowman acknowledged the other's win with a tacit nod.

* * *

Sometimes superheroes got hurt. When they did, like as not, they went to see the Medic. Like his clientele, this underground doctor's true identity was unknown. He'd treated nearly every member of the Watchmen at some point, back before the Keene Act, at which point he vanished into obscurity. Now, with the sudden resurgence in masked adventurers, his hidden clinic was once again open for business.

Aside from the obligatory lab coat, he always wore a surgical mask as well as a pure white domino mask. His brown eyes twinkled merrily as Nite Owl and Silk Spectre entered his clinic. "Well, well. Long time no see. What can I do for you two?"

Silk Spectre explained, "We got into it with a couple of gangs. One of them shot me in the abdomen."

"Evidently, the armor was sufficient to protect you," the Medic observed wryly.

Laurie pursed her lips. "I'm pregnant."

"Ah. Well, that does change the scenery a bit." He gestured to the door leading to his exam room. "Please, step into my office."

Nite Owl spent the interminable time pacing the length of the small lounge which served as the Medic's waiting room. The furnishings, though sparse, were quite comfortable, but Dan could not bring himself to sit still. It seemed an eternity before the door finally opened and the Medic beckoned to him. Nite Owl felt as if he couldn't move fast enough. He found his wife seated on the edge of an exam bed, refastening her costume.

The Medic cut to the chase. "Well, I've got great news. From what I can tell, you're in no immediate danger of a miscarriage."

"Oh, thank Christ." Dan and Laurie embraced. Drunk on adrenaline, laughed with unabashed relief.

"But," the doctor continued once they calmed down, "I must warn you that you might not be so lucky if you receive another blow like that. Though the decision's entirely yours, Silk Spectre, I feel I have to recommend that you step down from crimefighting for the duration of your pregnancy." Though his tone was serious, there was no hint of reprimand, no unspoken question as to why she was out there in the first place when she knew of the risk to her unborn child. The Medic never judged, for though he seldom left his underground clinic, he too was a mask, and he understood the motivations that drove them.

Laurie bit her lip, nodded. "Thank you, doc."

The Medic gave a modest shrug. "That's what I'm here for."

Back aboard Archie, Laurie sat in the copilot's seat, staring down at the mask she held in her lap. "Guess you'll get to have all the fun for awhile." Her voice cracked.

Dan activated the autopilot and got out of his seat. Pushing back his cowl, he knelt before his wife and gripped her hands. "We could probably both use a break from this."

"No," she sniffed, shook her head, "Weird as it sounds, I'd feel better knowing you were still out here patrolling."

The corner of Dan's mouth quirked. "Trying to get me out of the way?"

Laurie gave an unsteady chuckle. "Sure. Beaus will be lining up outside my door." Her face slowly crumpled. "Jesus, Dan. I almost got our baby killed."

"C'mere." He drew her into a hug. Laurie rested her head on his shoulder, tears falling from her eyes, while Dan stroked her hair. "Lots of expectant mothers put themselves in risky situations, y'know. Soldiers, police…"

"You saying I've got nothing to feel guilty about?"

Daniel snorted. "You're gonna feel guilty no matter what I say. Just try not to beat yourself up too much, okay? You're alright, the baby's alright. That's all that matters."

"Right." She pulled back, looked at him with a rueful smile. "This is one weird family we're starting."

Dan grinned. "Weird?" said the man dressed as an owl, "How so?"

Laurie laughed and wiped her eyes. "Okay, enough self pity." She rested a hand on her belly. "Things could've been a lot worse."

Dan pulled off his gloves, reached out to cradle his wife's face in his hands. "You know, when I saw you go down…I didn't even think about the baby. I was scared out of my mind thinking…" He couldn't bring himself to finish the thought.

Laurie leaned forward to kiss him. "Everything's gonna be fine."

"Yeah." They kissed again, trying to banish dark thoughts of what might have been.


	4. Confrontations and Revelations

**A/N:** The bit of flashback dialog for Laurence Schexnayder is taken from the movie, because I liked it better than the fight he and Sally Jupiter had in the graphic novel. I felt it made Laurence a more sympathetic character.

* * *

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

* * *

CALIFORNIA

The instant she heard about her daughter's close call, Sally Jupiter grabbed the phone and frantically dialed Dan's and Laurie's number, messing up twice in the process which resulted in some colorful language. She couldn't hold back a relieved laugh when her daughter answered the phone. "Oh, thank god, Laurie! I saw on the news what happened. Are you alright, sweetie?"

_"I'm fine, Mom. What's this about the news? There weren't any reporters there when it happened."_

Sally plopped down onto the divan. "Oh, some guy up in his apartment stuck his camcorder out the window. Probably turned right around and sold it to the highest bidder before you two even took off in that Owlship of yours. It was terrible to see! You sure you're alright? Is the baby…?"

_"We're fine. Medic says we got lucky." _Sally could hear the strain in Laurie's voice. Putting yourself in danger was one thing, but when your unborn child was at risk, it changed everything. _"Guess I'm gonna be taking after you more than I wanted,"_ Laurie chuckled, trying to sound flippant and failing, _"I'm hanging up the mask."_

"Oh, Laurie," Sally's voice conveyed a lifetime's understanding in those two simple words. Only a former masked adventurer could fully comprehend the sacrifice her daughter was making.

_"It's just 'til the baby's born," _Laurie assured her, but her tone held a trace of doubt.

"I understand, honey. Your life stops belonging to you once you become a mother. It's for the best." She twisted the phone cord, wrapping the coils around the entire length of her finger. "What about that husband of yours?"

Laurie sighed. _"He said he'd quit, but I wouldn't let him. No reason both of us should go crazy sitting around at home."_

"You could get a real job," the old woman suggested, only half serious.

_"Oh, sure,"_ Laurie agreed, _"Hell, with my qualifications, prospective employers will be breaking down the door trying to snatch me up."_

A long, drawn silence, then both women burst out laughing.

_"Oh. I really needed that."_

"Sweetheart," Sally hesitated, "I know you think I regretted having to retire so I could have you. But trust me, you were more than worth it. And you'll feel the same way about your baby." She heard the hitch in her daughter's breathing on the other end of the line.

_"Thanks, Mom."_ An awkward response, but sincere. _"Will you be calling again?"_

"You betcha. And, hey, _you_ could try calling your mother once in a while," she chided, but gently, "Phones work both ways, you know."

_"I know, Mom. I will. Bye."_

"Bye, honey." Sally hung up the phone, and like always after one of her conversations with Laurie, her eyes wandered to the myriad pictures and photographs hanging from her walls. Not the ones of her as the original Silk Spectre, posing in her risque costume with its short skirt and fishnet stockings, but of plain old Sally Jupiter. There were numerous pictures of her with her daughter throughout the girl's childhood, as well as a few with Laurence Schexnayder, ex-husband and former agent. One of the photos was of them on their wedding day in 1947, surrounded by friends and colleagues, including her fellow Minutemen in full regalia. Sally experienced a familiar pang of guilt on seeing her and Laurence together.

Despite what most people thought, the marriage didn't start out as a sham. There'd been a genuine affection between them which both mistook for love. It wasn't long before they realized the truth, but by then divorce was unthinkable. The marriage brought a convenience to their professional lives that neither was willing to give up. So they continued going through the motions, sleeping in the same bed, kissing each other in view of reporters, looking for all the world like the perfect happy couple. Things might have been different if only… Sally shoved the thought aside, more from habit than the pain it brought. _You're a practical girl, Sally,_ she told herself, _No point in wasting time on if onlys._

She rose from the divan, walked to the end table where she kept her copy of the group photo of the Minutemen. The moment when she'd felt most complete, frozen forever. She seldom thought of what happened after. Eddie's attack on her. Christ, even after what he did to her she still—

_"—you let him finish the job. What, were you drunk? Or just lonely?" _Laurence's words, spoken in anger and hurt. The argument they had where it all finally came out, the thing that had driven the final wedge between them. Her infidelity. It only happened once, but it was more than Laurence had done. Incredibly, despite the fact that their marriage was a sham, he never once cheated on her. If they'd hated the sight of each other, it wouldn't have mattered so much. But, despite the growing distance between them, they still cared for each other. And that was why it hurt so much.

It only happened once, and afterward, when she discovered her pregnancy…

* * *

"Laurence." She hovered in the doorway to his office, uncertain whether she was relieved to find him off the phone for once, or disappointed that there was no excuse to put this off. "There's something I need to tell you."

"Can it wait?" he asked absently, riffling through his Rolodex, "I gotta make a follow-up call about that movie deal –"

"I'm pregnant."

He froze. So still she feared he was having a stroke. But then he slowly lifted his head to stare at her with a long face devoid of all expression. "What?"

Sally licked her dry lips. For most couples such an announcement would be joyous, but she and her husband hadn't made love in over a year. Not since…

"I'm pregnant," she repeated, barely above a whisper.

Laurence straightened, faced her head-on. The muscles of his jaws twitched. "How long?" he asked coldly.

"Not long. I mean, I only just found out a few days ago." She twisted the wedding band on her finger, a nervous habit that only served to reinforce her indiscretion. It took all of her considerable willpower to meet her husband's stony gaze. The silence stretched on for three agonizing minutes. Only three? It seemed so much longer. Sally didn't know how much more of it she could bear. Even having Laurence scream, call her filthy names, hit her, _anything_ would have been preferable to this.

Finally. "Why are you telling me this? Why not just get the damned abortion and pretend it never happened? I wouldn't have known the difference."

Sally braced herself for what she was about to tell him. She'd thought about it long and hard, almost convinced herself more than once to do just what her husband suggested. But in the end, she just couldn't go through with it. "I'm not getting the abortion, Laurence."

"Really," his voice was glacial, "So you've made up your mind. Gonna settle down with whoever it is you've been seeing behind my back, start a happy little family."

"It was only one time. And he's not exactly the family type. I thought…I hoped that…" She took a breath and forged ahead. "This could be a good thing, Laurence. We could raise this baby together. You would make a wonderful father for it, I know it. You've always done right by me."

"Too bad I can't say the same about you." He felt a moment's smug pleasure at her stung expression.

Still, she tried again. "We could make this family work, Laurence. This baby," she placed a hand on her still-flat stomach, "could wind up being the best thing in our lives. It doesn't have to know—"

"What? That I'm not the father? That it's the bastard of an adulteress?" Laurence barked a humorless laugh, took off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Christ, Sally," he sighed, suddenly exhausted. "Just go. Get out of my office. I can't listen to you anymore." A long pause, then the muffled sounds of footsteps on carpet. Laurence opened his eyes and stared at the empty doorway.

Sally didn't pay attention to where she was going, too wrapped up in guilt and sadness. Her feet moved of their own volition, carrying her down the hall to a particular door. She stared at it for a long time. Neither she nor her husband had been in there since she came home from the hospital. Only the maid went in once a week to keep everything dusted and aired out. Sally tried to pretend it didn't even exist; tried to run from the painful memories of what might have been.

She reached out, turned the knob. The door opened without a sound, revealing a shrine of what she and Laurence had lost. There was the crib that was never slept in, the toys never played with, the dresser full of little clothes never to be worn. Sally stepped into the lifeless nursery. She approached the crib, reached in to pick up the little plush hippo Laurence bought on the day he found out he was going to be a daddy. It stared at her with friendly glass eyes. Cradling it, Sally put her back to the nearest wall and slowly slid down until her bottom hit the carpet. She hugged the plush doll and, head bowed, let out a sob.

"Here."

She raised her head, startled to find her husband standing over her holding out a handkerchief. She took the proffered square of cloth and dabbed her eyes. "Thanks."

Laurence turned away from her. His gazed seemed riveted to the far wall, on the fanciful circus animals that frolicked across the wallpaper. "Who was he?"

She didn't need to ask who he meant. "Eddie Blake."

His head jerked towards her, eyes wide behind his spectacles. _"What?"_ It was the last person he or anyone would have expected. Somehow, it made her cheating even worse, as if she was telling him she'd rather be with a would-be rapist than him. A knot of rage formed within him, a tumorous growth that would continue to haunt him years later.

"It doesn't matter," Sally hastened to reassure him in some feeble way, "It was just the one time. Never again."

After a long, drawn out moment, he said to her, "I don't know if I can ever forgive you."

"I understand."

He hesitated, then slowly moved to sit beside her on the floor. He sat with his forearms resting on his drawn-up knees, his gaze straight ahead. "But I promise," he added a few beats later, "that I won't take it out on the kid."

Sally released the breath she hadn't been aware of holding. "Thank you," she whispered.

Now Laurence turned to her, his expression somber. "Just promise it will never happen again. You'll never see him again."

She nodded without hesitation. "Never again." One promise she managed to keep, at least.

A little less than nine months later, Sally's daughter was born. She named her Laurie, after her husband. Her daddy, as she insisted on calling him for years afterwards. They hoped having Laurie would help to heal the wounds left when Sally miscarried over a year ago. They hoped raising a child together would somehow salvage what remained of their damaged relationship.

They'd hoped in vain.

* * *

JUBILATION

Danny watched her mother's face in wide-eyed fascination. Observed how the eyebrows arched up, the way her full lips parted and her mouth gaped, the sound that emerged. "Ahhh."

The baby did her best to imitate this fascinating facial contortion, only to blink in surprise when the rubber-coated spoon went into her open mouth to deposit its burden of cream of wheat and pureed peaches.

"Mmm!" Chloe licked her own lips as her daughter smack-smacked and swallowed, waving her chubby arms as if to say _Look what I did!_

A faint sound drew Chloe's attention to the person seated across the table from her. Walter sat with his chin resting in his hand, the corners of his mouth quirked in amusement. Chloe feigned annoyance. "What?"

"Nothing," he shrugged, his smile widening, "Just enjoying the show."

Chloe smirked. "I'm pleased you find my efforts to feed our daughter her breakfast so entertaining." She dipped the spoon into the bowl, brought it up to the infant who readily opened her mouth this time. "You realize this isn't half as funny as some of the faces _you_ pull when you feed her."

"I don't make faces!" Walter protested, sitting up with a mock frown.

"Sure you do," Chloe retorted, grinning mischievously, "Course most of them are variations of your usual scowl. And Danny just scowls right back. It's hilarious." She scrunched up her face in a comical imitation of her husband's expression. Danny, enthralled and distracted by this new vision, stared open-mouthed, her breakfast dribbling down her chin. Walter laughed, silently as always. Chloe wiped the baby's face with a corner of her already soiled bib. "You gonna take the car out to Zane's house?"

Walter shook his head. "No." Much to his surprise, Walter found he preferred the bicycle over the car when the weather permitted. It was a beautiful day outside, not a cloud to be seen, and only the lightest breeze to stir the budding foliage. A perfect day for outdoor work. Walter sobered a little at the thought of who he would soon be working with.

Chloe quickly picked up on her husband's mood, even though all her attention seemed to be on the task of feeding her infant daughter. "Y'know, Zane wouldn't hold it against you if you changed your mind. You could make up an excuse, say that Danny came down with another cold or something."

Well, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't tempted. But Walter told Zane he would be there, and he would not go back on his word. This didn't mean he had to like it. "No. It's fine. I'll go."

Chloe bit her lip, nodded. "'Kay." She understood how anxious he felt about a possible confrontation with Fallon. Hell, she was nervous, too. So much uncertainty still existed between Walter and Fallon. Once they started working together, it could go either way. Zane, the clever old bastard, must have known that. His asking both men to help with the tree was not a coincidence or the result of momentary carelessness. Chloe wasn't sure whether to feel grateful for his attempt at peacemaking or to go and give him a good stern lecture on minding his own business.

Walter rose from his seat, picked up his empty breakfast plate, and carried it to the sink. He then went to his wife and gave her a kiss that wound up longer than he'd planned. "See ya later, then," Chloe whispered against his lips.

"Later," he agreed, kissed her again, then turned to give his daughter a peck on the forehead. The baby grinned up at her daddy, who smiled back at her. Then Walter left the kitchen, put on his work boots, and headed out the front door.

Out in the front yard, standing in a large metal tub up to his belly in warm sudsy water, Nixon, the world's laziest dog, submitted to the inevitable with mournful resignation. Elsie mercilessly scrubbed the unhappy canine's hide with a stiff brush, humming a cheerful tune all the while. For Nixon, springtime meant the start of the dreaded flea and tick baths which the Lady-Who-Fed-Him subjected him to. It was an indignity he long ago learned to put up with, realizing that the less hassle he made it for the Lady, the quicker it was finished.

Elsie paused in her ministrations to wave at a passing Walter who returned the gesture, wrinkling his nose at the pungent mix of wet dog and medicated shampoo that an errant breeze carried to him. He went to the storage shed, got out the bike. With practiced ease he mounted and pedaled off down the long driveway and turned onto the main road leading further into town. He was struck by the picturesque scenery, as always. He rode his bike past stately trees and lush greenery in full bloom. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Walter loved Jubilation, loved the sense of peace it brought him, a sensation he never thought he would experience. It wasn't long before he reached Zane Dobbins's house, situated on the edge of town, but not as far out as Walter's home. A familiar pickup that apparently just pulled into the driveway disgorged its two passengers. From the driver's side emerged the unmistakeable lanky form of Henry Dobbins, clad in old jeans and a denim work shirt rather than his sheriff's uniform. From the passenger side came Fallon Harrison.

Walter brought the bicycle to a halt and dismounted. He walked beside the bike the rest of the way up the short driveway.

"H'lo, Walter," Henry called amiably. Fallon offered a wary nod. Walter nodded back, acknowledging them both.

At the house, the front door opened and Zane strode out, a winning smile plastered across his dark face. "Hey! You all got here at th' same time! Couldn't-a gone better if ya tried." He approached the three men to greet them, his son with a warm hug, Fallon and Walter with hearty handshakes. "Ya up for startin' right away?"

Henry shrugged. "Sure. That's what we're here for."

"Alright. C'mon, then." The old man led them around to the back of the house. Although there were several trees in the backyard, he didn't have to specify which one was to be felled. The elm towered above its neighbors, skeletal branches reaching upwards, bare of leaves or buds. Only the thick moss that coated the tree's trunk offered a semblance of life. All four men craned their necks to gaze at the uppermost branches far above them.

"Wow," Fallon murmured, "That's a big one."

Zane sighed, "Yeah. Well over a hundred years old when it died. Damn shame."

"Well," Henry got out a pair of work gloves from his back pocket, "Might as well get started."

They got out the ladder and the chainsaw. First they hewed the branches: Zane wielding the chainsaw, the others clearing away the branches. Once the massive trunk stood forlorn and bare, the four men worked out a routine. One used the chainsaw to cut down the trunk, section by section, into manageable logs; one used an axe to chop the logs into stove wood; and the other two carried and stacked the wood in Zane's wood shed to be used as next winter's firewood. They rotated throughout the day, and the hours progressed with the tree's steady diminishment.

Walter threw himself into the work and soon fell into a meditative state, mind blank to all worry and doubt, all physical discomfort. There was only the rise and fall of the axe, the roar of the saw, the clunk and clatter of falling logs. Zane had to call him twice to get him to stop for lunch. Walter blinked several times as awareness crept back in. He put away the last armload of wood, stripped off his gloves, and followed the others towards the house. The aches and pains which he'd only been peripherally aware of before were brought to the fore. He rolled his shoulders and neck to get the kinks out, put his hands on his lower back and leaned back until he heard a faint pop. God, he was getting old. Fortunately, the others looked just as beat.

They went inside, where Zane had sandwiches and sodas ready. Once they had their food, however, they all opted to eat outside and enjoy the perfect day. Zane and Henry sat on the porch steps, chatting amiably. Walter drifted to where a large section of trunk stood on its end and sat on it as if it were a circular bench. He set his open can of soda on the ground by his feet, took his sandwich in both hands and took a bite. As he ate, he was surprised to realize he was enjoying himself. Though he seldom contributed to the others' conversations while they worked, he found he liked the sense of camaraderie they all shared. Something he hadn't felt since those long ago years when he and Nite Owl were partnered. The thought of his old friend brought a sense of melancholy. Daniel no doubt believed that Walter was dead, and probably even blamed himself for not saving him. More than once Walter imagined various ways he could contact him, but all held an element of risk for them both that he felt was too great. This saddened the former superhero more than he expected. He missed his friend.

"Mind if I sit here?"

Walter blinked, looked up at the tall figure silhouetted above him. Fallon stood with a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, a soda in the other. His eyes held the barest hint of anxiety. Walter hesitated, then gave a single nod. _Might as well get this over with._ Fallon took a seat on a neighboring log, but made no move to eat the rest of his lunch. An awkward silence stretched between the two men. Finally, Walter asked, "How's Alvin?"

"Fine," Fallon murmured, staring down at the worn toes of his work boots, "Better now that his mama's home. How's your daughter?"

"Starting to teethe."

The other man smiled faintly. "I remember when Alvin went through that. Miserable time for everyone. Nobody got any sleep. Alvie even had a fever for a while."

"I'm sorry I upset him," Walter blurted.

Fallon shrugged. "You were just bein' honest with him. Nobody likes findin' out their hero's just another flawed human." He set his soda aside, rested his sandwich on his knee. He reached down to pluck a blade of grass and twisted it in his fingers. "Ever think about tellin' Danielle about what ya used ta do?"

Walter's lips compressed into a thin line. "Chloe thinks I should. Says she's bound to find out eventually."

"But you don't think so."

"No." Walter set his own sandwich aside, no longer hungry. "Don't want her to look at me like—"

"Like my son looks at me?" Fallon spoke without bitterness; a statement of fact.

Walter nodded. "Or like he looks at me. Not sure which is worse," he sighed, "Being seen as a hero or a monster. Don't want my daughter to hate me, but I don't want her to end up like me."

"I know what ya mean." Fallon tied the blade of grass into a knot, tossed it aside. "I never told Alvin 'bout my drinkin' problem. I dunno, maybe if I had, he'd've understood better when…when I slipped. Woulda known it wasn't really _me_ that did what I did ta Livi."

On seeing the other man's guilty expression, Walter ventured a question. "Do _you_ know it wasn't really you?"

Fallon snorted. "No." He uttered a sound that could only be loosely described as a laugh. He rubbed a hand across his tired face. "Hell. Ya think he'll ever forgive me?"

"I forgive you," the redhead spoke hardly above a whisper. And he _did_, he suddenly realized. He no longer had the desire or the inclination to hold on to whatever animosity he might have carried for the man. It was a revelation that startled them both.

Fallon looked at him in surprise. "Well," he finally said, "guess if Rorschach can forgive me, there's still hope."

Back at the house, Henry and Zane rose from the porch steps and headed inside to dispose of the remains of their lunches. Fallon and Walter stood to follow them, then all four men returned to their work. They finished by the onset of evening. Only a large, flat stump marked where the massive tree once stood.

"Whoo!" Zane wiped his sweaty brow on his sleeve. "Gonna sleep heavy tonight. Thanks again for th' help, boys. Wouldn't have got in done in a week on my own."

"Not a problem, Dad." An equally tired Henry clasped his father's shoulder. Zane shook hands with the others, thanking them profusely. They all said their farewells and began to go their separate ways. Walter retrieved his bike from where he'd leaned it against the side of the house and wondered if he had the energy to pedal all the way home.

"Wanna ride, Walter?" Henry asked. Beside him, Fallon gave the redhead a look that was not unfriendly.

Walter considered a moment, then gave a slow nod. "Alright."

The bike was loaded into the truck's bed. Walter squeezed into the cab beside Fallon, neither man quite so uncomfortable with the situation as the might have been earlier that day. They rode home in silence, Henry and Fallon too tired to converse, the faint music of the radio and the rattle and hum of the truck the only sounds. When they reached his house, Walter thanked Henry for the lift, nodded goodbye to Fallon, and got out of the truck. It took a great deal of effort to lift the bicycle from the back of the pickup; his arms felt as if they were weighted with lead. He walked the bike over to the picket fence and left it leaning there, then shuffled over to the house. He mounted the three steps, passed the shapeless lump that was Nixon sprawled on the porch, and stepped through the front door.

Chloe was seated on the floor, playing with the baby. At the sound of her husband's entrance, she looked up and her eyes widened. "Whoa. You look like you're about to fall over."

Walter managed a grunt of agreement. He kicked off his shoes, stumbled into the living room, and collapsed onto the sofa. Elsie, seated in her easy chair, peered over the magazine she was reading and commented, "You look like death warmed over."

Chloe grimaced; she hated that expression. She left Danny to her colorful toys and went to sit beside the exhausted redhead. "How'd it go?"

Walter could see her concern. He offered a reassuring smile. "Went fine. Fallon and I talked."

"About what?"

Walter tried to respond, but a sudden yawn overtook him. Chloe smiled in sympathy. "You can tell me about it later. But…things are okay?"

He nodded, saw the relief in his wife's eyes. He put his arm around her to draw her close. Chloe leaned against his shoulder. He smelled of sweat and sunblock and sawdust. Heat radiated from him as if he'd absorbed the sun into his body. Not feverish, but the heat of a long day's exertion. He was probably sore all over, she thought. Chloe drew away and rose from the couch. Walter blinked tiredly up at her. She took his hand. "C'mon. If you fall asleep now you'll wake up stiff as a board. You need a hot shower to loosen up or you won't be able to move tomorrow."

Walter reluctantly stood and allowed himself to be led upstairs. Chloe threw a glance over her shoulder at her aunt, who smiled and nodded to assure her she'd watch over the baby. Danny played on with her squeaking, rattling, squishy playthings, oblivious of her parents' departure from the living room.

Walter hadn't realized just how exhausted he was. It took so much effort just to climb the steps to the second floor and shuffle to the bedroom. Chloe led him into the bathroom and began to undress him as if he were a child. He smiled at her. "Can do it myself, you know."

"I know," she grinned, "Want me to stop?"

He shook his head. Her smile made him wish he had a little more energy. He leaned in to kiss her. "Should tell you more often how much I appreciate you," he whispered.

Chloe smiled at him. Her graying hair was tucked behind one ear, but hung freely down the other side to partially conceal her face, giving her a coquettish appearance. "You don't need to tell me." And he knew she meant it. But he still wanted to say it.

"I love you," he told her.

The leaned towards each other until their foreheads touched.


	5. Strawberries and Blondes

**A/N:** Yeah, I know the chapter title's kind of silly. I had a bit of trouble writing this one, mostly because I have to try harder to come up with the Dan/Laurie parts of the story. But I thing I'm getting into the swing of things.

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

* * *

JUBILATION

Danny's teething pains grew in intensity. When she wasn't chewing on everything she could get her mouth on, she wailed from the discomfort. Walter saw how the new teeth forced their way through her sensitive gums. Erupting, it was called; a very apt description. Even though he knew all this was normal, Walter felt helpless in the face of his baby daughter's pain. Chloe got some sort of oral gel that was supposed to soothe a teething infant's gums. At first, Walter felt a bit leery of putting a foreign substance in his child's mouth, but once he realized how well it worked, his misgivings faded. That gel saved everyone's sanity during that period of Danielle's development. That and teething rings. _Lots _of teething rings. Colorful soft plastic donuts which crowded the freezer. Danny seemed to spend hours gnawing away at those things. It was a wonder her jaws had any strength left for even the mushiest food. But eat she did, and she continued to grow at a startling rate. Her chubby legs grew stronger. She learned to stand with hardly any need to hold onto anything for balance. Soon she would take her first steps.

Walter never understood people's elation over their infants' tiniest achievements: first smiles, first words, first steps. It wasn't as if any of it was new. Children had been developing the same way since the beginning of time. But now that he was a parent, everything his daughter did amazed him. The first time Danielle smiled at him he almost forgot to breathe for the wonder of it. When she laughed, Walter thought his heart would break from happiness. The more personality she showed, the more deeply he fell in love with her. And the more terrified he became of her. He thought loving Chloe was frightening, but it was nothing compared to what he experienced with his child. Memories rose, unbidden, of tragedies that befell the most innocent lives. Lives he avenged as Rorschach, but was never able to save. One life in particular haunted him more as time passed and his little girl moved ever closer to toddlerhood.

He did his best to keep his fears hidden from his wife and Elsie with some success, until one late afternoon when everyone was outside enjoying the mild weather. Chloe and Elsie sat together on the porch glider, drinking iced tea and talking, while Walter collected the first strawberries from the new patch he'd cultivated in the garden. Danielle was on the porch with her mother and auntie, playing with her toys on a quilted blanket. Nixon, as always, sprawled at his usual spot on the porch, oblivious to all around him.

Walter plucked the last ripe strawberry and dropped it into the basket. Everyone was in for a treat if the fruit tasted even half as good as they looked, he thought as he rose with the basket in his hands. He walked around to the front of the house, smiling as the sound of Danny's laughter reached his ears. He saw his wife and aunt-in-law grinning at something, but he couldn't see his daughter on her blanket. Perhaps a ball got away from her and she crawled after it. Walter mounted the porch steps, glanced to where the two women's attention was focused, and froze.

Danielle had indeed crawled away from her blanket, but not to reclaim a wayward toy. She'd gone over to the snoozing Nixon and was at that moment rolling on top of the massive dog, grabbing loose folds of fur-covered skin and tugging it this way and that as if it were nothing more than a loose rug draped over the animal's body. If Nixon suffered any discomfort from the child's unwelcome attentions, he gave no sign. The huge dog merely lay there with his rheumy eyes gazing upwards in a weary _oh well_ expression.

Part of Walter knew that Nixon would never harm Danny, but that was only a small part of his consciousness swept aside by the tide of horror that rose with the memory of another little girl, other dogs. He wasn't aware of the basket of strawberries which tumbled from his hands to spill onto the floorboards. Didn't hear Elsie's and Chloe's alarmed voices as he rushed forward and snatched his child up with such violence that she started to bawl. Nixon, startled by the redhead's actions, rose and scooted away with uncharacteristic speed.

Chloe grabbed her husband's arm, jarring him back to full awareness. "Walter, they were just playing!"

Elsie had risen from the wicker chair and hurried to the dog's side, but Nixon was more puzzled than upset, unlike everyone else standing on the porch.

Walter stared at his wife, stunned by his own behavior. Danielle wailed in his ear, frightened and confused. Chloe reached out to her. "Give her to me." She lifted the crying infant from Walter's unresisting arms. "Shhh. It's okay, baby. Momma's got you." Her soothing words calmed her daughter. Only when the baby's sobs quieted did she look at her husband again. "What's gotten into you?" she murmured, voice low so as not to upset Danny further.

Walter didn't know what to say. He opened his mouth, but no words emerged. He watched mutely as Chloe frowned and headed for the door. "Lemme know when you've figured it out," she muttered. The screen door slammed shut behind her. Walter stood for a long while, bereft. His gaze wandered down to the strawberries strewn at his feet. He knelt, righted the basket, and began gathering up the scattered fruit. A second pair of hands joined in his efforts. He raised his head to meet Elsie's brown eyes. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," she sighed, dropping a handful of strawberries into the basket, "Looks like most of 'em aren't even bruised."

Walter sat back on his heels. "Don't know how to stop being afraid for her. I can't stop thinking of all the ways she could get hurt."

The older woman's mouth quirked. "Y'know, the other day I saw Chloe sterilizing the hell out of Danny's teething rings. Boiled 'em, sprayed 'em, washed them in about five different cleansers. Apparently she'd been readin' up on mouth infections in babies." She smiled. "Point is, you're not the only one who's gets scared."

Her words did little to reassure him. He glanced at Nixon, who stood at the corner of the porch watching him with wary eyes. Walter felt a stab of guilt; Nixon once defended him from a frightened mob, and how did Walter repay him? "Is he okay?"

Elsie glanced over her shoulder at the dog. "Oh, he's fine. Nix is a tough ol' mutt." As if to prove her point, the ugly dog returned to his usual spot, still eyeing Walter. The loose folds of his skin puddled around him as he lay down.

Elsie dropped the last berries into the basket and dusted off her hands. "Alrighty then. Help me up, Walt. These damn joints of mine ain't as limber as they used to be."

Walter stood, offered Elsie his hand. Inside, Danny peered over the edge of her playpen at them as they entered the house. On seeing her father, her mouth split into a gap-toothed grin, her earlier distress already forgotten, much to Walter's relief. He went to his daughter and got down on his knees before her, their eyes nearly level over the playpen's rim. He reached out to place a hand on the baby's downy head. Danny gurgled.

Elsie smiled at this scene and headed for the kitchen with the basket of strawberries. She found her niece rummaging in the freezer for yet another teething ring. The younger woman shoved the freezer's contents out of the way with more force than was necessary. Elsie carried the basket to the sink, got a colander from a cupboard, emptied the basket's contents into it, and turned on the faucet to rinse off the fruit. "You steamed at him?"

Chloe shoved the freezer door shut. Her brow was creased in an angry frown. "Of course I'm steamed. He was completely out of line."

Elsie offered no response. She turned off the tap, dabbed the strawberries with a paper towel. "We got any CoolWhip left?"

Chloe bit back in acidic response and opened the freezer again. She pulled out the white container, handed it to her aunt. Elsie removed the lid, picked up a strawberry, used it to scoop up a dollop of whipped cream. She brought the white-capped fruit to her mouth and took a bite. "Oh, my," she breathed, "These are better than I'd hoped." She picked up another strawberry, held it out to her niece. "Wanna try one?"

"Are you trying to distract me?" Chloe asked, suspicious. Her aunt gave her a _who me?_ look which made Chloe smirk in spite of herself. She took the proffered strawberry, dipped it into the whipped cream, and bit. Succulent was the only word she could think of to describe it.

"Don't tell Walt this," Elsie confided, "but he's far better at gardening than I ever was."

Chloe felt her irritation fade, replaced with something more melancholy. "I think I know why he reacted the way he did."

The older woman nodded, but didn't ask for any details, leaving it up to her niece.

Chloe sighed. "He in the living room?"

"Last I saw of him." Elsie watched the younger woman go out the door. She turned to the colander in the sink and picked up another strawberry.

Walter stood when he saw his wife step out of the kitchen. She approached the playpen and handed their daughter a bright orange teething ring, which the baby promptly chomped down on. Chloe turned to her husband. "Was it because of Blaire Roche?" It was subtle, but she saw him flinch at the name. Her expression softened. She moved closer to him, reached out to touch his cheek. His eyes slowly rose to meet her sympathetic gaze. "Back when I worked at the clinic," she told him, "one of my patients was a homeless man who fought in Vietnam. Got into a lot of fights and often needed patching up. Most of the time he seemed fine, but once in a while…" Her gaze dropped for a moment as the sad memories returned. "Once in a while, for no apparent reason, he would lash out. Sometimes he'd yell, a couple of times he tried to hit me. I got a black eye from him once." Walter stiffened at this, hands and jaws clenched at the thought of anyone striking his wife. Chloe gently shook her head. "I always forgave him, because I understood that in those moments he'd forget that the war was over. He never felt safe, even though the danger was long gone."

She leaned in close, planted a kiss on her husband's lips. "It wasn't his fault," she whispered, "And what happened outside wasn't yours."

A trembling sigh escaped him. Walter put his arms around Chloe's waist and kissed her back. The kiss deepened. Their lips parted and Chloe's tongue crept into Walter's mouth, teasing and sliding against his own tongue. When they finally drew apart Walter smiled. "Taste like strawberries."

Chloe giggled. "They're really good. Elsie's probably eaten half of 'em by now."

Walter's expression sobered. "Wish sometimes I could cut the memories out of me."

"I know," said Chloe, who carried some unhappy memories of her own, "Doesn't work that way, though. All we can do is deal with them."

He pulled her close against him. "Thank you for dealing with mine."

"Well," she smiled, "I don't have much choice in the matter. It's either live with your demons or live without you altogether. That's not about to happen."

"I don't deserve you," he whispered, a phrase he'd used more than once. And Chloe, like always, responded, "Deserving has nothing to do with it. Now," she gently disentangled herself from his embrace, reached into the playpen to lift out their daughter, still gnawing at her ring, "why don't we go see if Els left any strawberries for the rest of us." Smiling, she reached out a hand, which her husband readily took in his own.

* * *

NEW YORK

Laurie plunged into the clear, deep water, almost brushing against the white tiled bottom of the pool. Above and all around her were kicking legs of every length. She let her natural buoyancy carry her up to the surface and sputtered when her head broke through. The sounds which had been muted in the water now assaulted her ears; shouts, chatter, splashes, and underlying it all, the inane blare of popular music pumped through the speakers situated throughout the public swimming area. Laurie preferred a less crowded pool, but it was the weekend and many exasperated parents just dumped their overactive kids here so they could enjoy some peace and quiet at home. There were plenty of adults as well: pear-shaped seniors who squeezed their marshmallow white bodies into garish floral-print swimsuits middle-aged men in too-tight trunks all but concealed beneath drooping beer guts, gorgeous artificial blondes clad in bikinis the size of eye patches. But the ones Laurie worked hardest to keep her distance from were the other expectant mothers, many of them well into their third trimesters, their swollen stomachs jutting through their form-fitting suits like bowling balls. The one and only time Laurie swam with them they subjected her to endless litanies of complaints, from swollen ankles to deadbeat husbands and/or boyfriends. All so depressingly mundane. So she decided to keep to herself, which she generally preferred anyway.

Laurie began to visit the pool on a regular basis not long after she decided to take her extended hiatus from crimefighting. Initially, it was to help keep in shape, but over time she found it a welcome reprieve. Even so early in her pregnancy, she felt the differences in her body which sometimes left her feeling more tired than she would have expected. She was not looking forward to the roly-poly stage.

"Hi, Sandy!"

Laurie winced at the sound of her alias called out by that sugary voice. She forced a passable smile on her face before turning to the source of the greeting. "Hi, Jenna."

Jenna Nauls, nineteen years old, sweet natured and utterly guileless. Seven months ago she hooked up with yet another in a long string of crappy boyfriends, a well-to-do businessman who wanted an easy conquest while his wife was out of town. Poor Jenna believed all his platitudes about love, his lies about divorcing his wealthy wife and taking care of her. But when she told him she was pregnant with his child, he wrote her a check to get an abortion and promptly forgot all about her. Jenna didn't have the heart to terminate the pregnancy, so instead she put her unborn child up for adoption. The baby was promised to a nice upper middle-class couple that resided in one of those private gated communities.

Laurie was informed of all this within the first _hour_ of meeting Jenna. She couldn't quite figure out why the girl took such a shine to her, other than the fact that she was needy and Laurie displayed the much-desired trait of self-confidence. She liked Jenna, but sometimes she just wanted to shake some self-respect into the girl.

"How's it going?"

Jenna beamed. She was pretty in a waif-ish way. Her eyes were gray and the strands of hair that escaped her black swim cap were a natural dark blonde. "Guess what. I met this really sweet guy last week."

Laurie couldn't quite suppress a weary groan. If Jenna noticed, she chose to ignore it. "I met him when I was getting my last sonogram. He's a male nurse!" She giggled at the novelty of his profession. "His name's Joshua an' he asked me out tomorrow night!"

Laurie quirked an eyebrow. A male nurse who asked a seven-month pregnant girl out on a date? Her cynical mind immediately thought _pervert._ "You sure that's a good idea? I mean, isn't that against some kind of doctor-patient thing?"

"He's not a doctor," the girl retorted. Her smile had faded into something akin to worry. "You don't think I should see him?"

Laurie really didn't want to get mixed up in this. "It's none of my business. Do whatever you like."

But Jenna's expression remained troubled. Suddenly, she brightened. "Hey, I know! Why don't you and Sam come with us. You know, a double date. Then you could tell me what you think of Josh!"

_Aw, man._ She wanted to say no, to come up with some plausible excuse. But saying no to Jenna was like kicking a puppy; you wound up feeling like a total shit afterwards. "I'll have to talk it over with my husband," was the best she could come up with. From the elation on the girl's face, she thought that was as good as saying yes.

"Great! I'll let Josh know. It'll be so much fun!"

"Yeah," Laurie sighed, "A blast."

Later, down in the lair where Archie underwent some routine maintenance, Dan stared at his wife as she explained the situation. "You said _yes?_" Dan asked, incredulous.

Laurie shook her head. "I said we'd talk it over. That's not the same as yes."

"Not exactly a no either." He squinted at her as if in suspicion. "You're usually more decisive with your answers." As he very well knew from personal experience.

"Yeah, well," Laurie sat on a nearby workbench, "The kid's insidious when it comes to those big dewy eyes and little voice. You'll see when you meet her."

Dan's mouth curved into a mischievous grin. "'When'? So we _are_ going."

His wife sighed. "I guess. Dammit."

Daniel set aside his tools, moved to sit beside her on the bench, and put an arm around her shoulders. "Aw. My wife's made a new friend."

"We're not friends," she responded in a firm voice, "I'm going along with it because I just might be able to help her out in case this turns out to be another one of her disastrous relationships."

Her husband smirked, clearly unconvinced. "Uhuh."

"Seriously, she's a walking victim. It's like all the worst men can smell it on her. We'd be doing her a big favor by checking this guy out. Unless you don't wanna go?" she asked hopefully.

"You kidding?" Dan grinned, "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Damn.

* * *

It was a modest restaurant. The kind where average people brought their families when they wanted to eat out. In one of the booths, two couples sat across from each other. Even at a glance, the disparities between them were obvious. One couple was older, mid-thirties to forties, both blonde (though not by birth), the man with a mustache, both dressed in more expensive clothes than the other two. The younger couple, though well-dressed, wore clothing that was more commonly found in a Wal-Mart. The girl was small and waif-like, the man not much taller, with thinning dark hair which enhanced the pronounced slope of his brow. His face was angular, severe; his eyes deep brown. People who relied on appearances to make judgments on others would have given him a wide berth if they passed him on the street. Sam and Sandra Hollis (a.k.a. Laurie and Dan) used different criteria.

Daniel noticed his hands, long-fingered, smooth-palmed, the knuckles unmarred by scars. A man who never once used his fists in anger or defense. Laurie watched his behavior towards Jenna, noted how even when the girl accidentally spilled her water on him, not even a flicker of annoyance showed. He just laughed in gentle amusement as he dabbed himself with a napkin, while Jenna stared at him with a puppy-eyed devotion that left Laurie feeling sad for her.

"So," Joshua set his damp napkin aside, "what do you both do for a living?"

Dan took a swallow of his iced tea and launched into the prepared explanation. "Well, I used to be an investment banker, but my luck went so well I decided to quit while I was ahead."

"Early retirement," Josh smiled, his tone devoid of any sarcasm, "That's definitely the way to go. Still, even if I had the cash for it, I think I'd go crazy if I didn't keep busy."

"Oh, we've kept plenty busy," Laurie said, sharing a grin with her husband.

Their food arrived and the evening continued. Laurie was surprised by how much she enjoyed herself. Dan, as always, slipped into conversation with the other couple with hardly any effort, but Laurie found herself chatting with almost as much ease. Jenna seemed to blossom over the next hour. She told about her first awkward meeting with the adoptive parents of her unborn child, how kind and patient they seemed, and their gratitude to her for fulfilling their desire for a family. When she spoke of the adoption, her voice developed a slight tremor. Joshua took her hand and she smiled at him. "I wouldn't've been able to go through with it if it weren't for Josh," she said to the other couple, "He helped me figure out the best thing to do for my baby. I'm…I'm just not ready to be a mom."

_I'm not sure I am, either,_ Laurie thought, but didn't say.

For dessert, they all chose strawberries and cream.

They all parted company in the parking lot. Jenna flung her arms around Laurie in a tight hug. "I knew you'd like him," she whispered in the startled woman's ear. To Laurie's immense surprise, she returned the girl's hug. "I'll like him as long as he treats you right."

Dan and Joshua shook hands. "Nice meeting you, Josh."

"Likewise," the male nurse smiled. He then took Jenna's hand and led her towards his old Toyota. Jenna waved goodbye, all but jumping for joy. The Dreibergs wondered where on earth she got the energy.

"Seems like a good guy," Dan mentioned as they made their unhurried way to their own car.

"I hope so." Laurie leaned against his shoulder. "You know what I hate most about being a superhero? No matter how tough or strong or how many gadgets you have, you can't save people from themselves."

"You mean like someone who keeps picking the wrong guy over and over again?" Dan slipped his arm around her, pulling her closer. "Yeah. I hate that, too. But it looks like Jenna might've broken that particular cycle."

"Too early to tell. But I really hope you're right."

"I'm always right." Dan smirked. Laurie pretended to smack him. "Seriously, though, what about you?"

Laurie frowned. "What about me?"

"You handling your time off alright?"

She would have been more irritated if it weren't for the concern in his eyes. "I'm fine. Really. I've been catching up on my reading, for one thing." She grinned mischievously. "You never told me you read pulp detective novels."

Dan blinked in surprise. "Uh, what d'you mean?"

"Oh, come on, Dan. I found a whole stack of 'em tucked away in a box in the broom closet. You know, the ones with the cover illustrations that look like old Bogart movie posters." Her smile widened at her husband's obvious embarrassment. "Cagey sleuths in long coats and porkpie hats. Classy dames with platinum hair and long legs perched on the edge of a desk while smoking a cigarette in one of those long holders. Shady perps with thin mustaches and funny accents." She laughed.

Dan fidgeted, pushed up his glasses. "Yeah, I used to read those a lot when I was a kid. Never got around to getting rid of them."

They got into the car. Dan started the engine and pulled out of the parking space.

"Don't get rid of them," Laurie said in the lull that fell once they left the parking lot, "They're fun. They kinda remind me of how Mom used to talk about the good ol' days when she was in the Minutemen."

"They really had style back then," Dan agreed, "Both the heroes and the villains."

"Hate to think what kind of supervillains are gonna crop up now."

They fell silent for a while, lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Laurie said, "I do miss going on patrol with you."

Dan reached out to take her hand. "I miss you, too." He smiled at her. "Just a few more months."

Laurie nodded, leaned over to rest her head against his shoulder. They drove the rest of the way home in companionable silence, pondering their future.


	6. Scars and Souvenirs

**A/N:** OK, because of the nature of this chapter, the story's rating has now been changed to M. Sorry it took so long to post, but unfortunately writer's block can strike without warning. I hope this was worth the wait. ;-)

BTW. Yes, I nabbed the chapter's title from the Theory of a Deadman album. Come on, it's a cool title!

* * *

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

* * *

_And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars_

_And they pulse again with a keener sting—_

from "Sympathy" by Paul Laurence Dunbar

JUBILATION

A knock at the door, steady, insistent. Walter rose from the couch where he and Chloe and Elsie sat watching the TV while Danielle played with some of her toys on a blanket on the floor. She smiled up at her daddy as he passed. He went to the door, where the knocking continued, and grasped the knob. There was no sense of foreboding. Nothing in which he might have interpreted a warning. The doorknob turned easily.

The door burst inward, knocking him back, and half a dozen men poured into the house. Walter saw their faces. He remembered them all.

A snarling man with a tattooed face, whom Rorschach threw off a building more than a decade ago, brought a crowbar down on Walter's knee. The redhead fell with a roar of pain. He tried to fight back, but others took hold of his arms and legs. Their collective weight was too much for him. They dragged him into the living room where his family was. The rest of the invaders were already there. One of them—a man Rorschach helped Nite Owl put away for drug trafficking—grabbed Elsie by her hair and slammed her head down on the edge of the coffee table. The table's glass top cracked with the force of the impact. Chloe screamed. While the drug pusher beat her aunt, two Knot-Tops wrestled her to the floor and began to tear at her clothes. Walter struggled, shouted, but his captors only laughed and struck him with their fists and booted feet. One of the men assaulting Chloe held her down while the other ripped off her underwear and unzipped his fly. She cried and tried to curl in on herself, but the man forced her legs apart. Walter screamed in helpless rage as he saw his wife raped.

Danny, still on her blanket, wailed in fear and confusion. Her grandaunt lay in a bloodied heap on the floor, her father was being punched and kicked repeatedly, her mother trapped beneath two laughing, grunting men. The tattooed man who'd beaten Elsie sauntered over to the terrified infant and picked her up by a leg. The baby dangled upside-down in his grasp, screeching and flailing. The man laughed horribly, began to swing the child about. Walter, half-blinded by the blood which ran into his eyes, clawed feebly at the carpet as he tried to crawl towards his baby. The men who'd beaten him laughed and urged their comrade on as he swung Danielle's body like a pendulum and struck her head against the woodstove. Her head struck the hard metal with an audible crunch. The delicate bones of her tiny skull fractured like an eggshell and her cries ended with awful suddenness. Walter cried out in anguish. Chloe, naked and violated, screamed in wide-eyed horror as her daughter's ragdoll body was tossed aside and the murderer came towards her. The grinning man kicked the screaming woman in the face, again and again. Blood and broken teeth spilled from her mouth. Her cries became ragged croaks. And then the man pulled a gun out from his waistband and shot away what remained of her face.

_Walter felt his soul shatter. His family lay in bloodied ruins, the men who'd killed them laughed and taunted, and all he could do was scream and scream while the gun's dark barrel pointed at him…_

Chloe opened her eyes to pitch blackness. She lay still, letting her eyes adjust to the dim starlight which seeped in through the window. What woke her? The house was quiet, not even a breeze to disturb the night. There was only the rhythmic sounds of Danny's breaths from the baby monitor, their slowness assuring her the child slept. Chloe rolled onto her back, saw the dark shape of her husband on the bed beside her. Asleep as well. She gave a mental shrug, started to settle beneath the covers again…

A low sound froze her mid-snuggle. Deep and mournful as a ghost's lament, it quickened her heart and brought a shiver up her spine. She quickly reached over to the nightstand and switched on the lamp. The sudden brightness stung her eyes. She blinked away the discomfort and sat up, turning to the motionless form beside her. Walter's face remained as expressionless as ever, but the sound that had woken Chloe emerged from his throat, a sound filled with helpless torment. Chloe put a hand on his shoulder, gave him a gentle shake. "Walter," she whispered, "Wake up, baby."

His eyes opened. For a few seconds he gazed up at her in blank incomprehension, then awareness gradually dawned. Walter cried out, sat up with a suddenness that made his wife jump back in alarm. His hands gripped her shoulders painfully. He stared at her in terrified disbelief. "Chloe," so much pain and fear conveyed in that one syllable.

She touched his face, stared into his wide blue eyes. "You were dreaming."

Understanding slowly crept in. His lips trembled. "Dreaming." Tears welled in his eyes, spilled down his gaunt cheeks. His hands released her shoulders to wander over her features, her face, her graying hair, her lips. "Dreaming," he repeated, as if he didn't dare believe it. He tensed as another thought occurred. "Danielle." He threw the covers aside and leapt from the bed, rushed out the door before his wife thought to say anything. Chloe rose and hurried after him. She followed him across the hall, into the baby's room. She worried that he might wake her, but the silence remained unbroken. Walter stood over the crib, watching their daughter sleep. Danielle lay on her side, curled around her teddy bear, her lips parted and breath whistling in and out of her little mouth. Walter stared down at her with frightening intensity. His hands gripped the top rail of the crib with enough force to whiten his knuckles. Chloe approached with care and placed a hand on his shoulder. She could feel the tension in his body like an electric current. "Walter," she whispered, careful not to wake the slumbering infant.

He turned to her, his eyes filled with a mixture of relief and despair. Chloe didn't want to ask, but felt compelled to. "What did you see?"

His mouth opened, but no words came. Instead, his face began to crumple as the shock faded and emotion flooded in. Chloe felt her own throat tighten in sympathy. She took his hand and gently led him from the room. Walter looked back once as if to reassure himself that Danielle was still there, then reluctantly let his wife shut the door behind them. She coaxed him back into their bedroom, sat them both down on the edge of the bed. Her hand caressed his cheek. "It's okay, baby. It was just a bad dream."

Walter let out a strangled sob and pulled her into a desperate embrace. His body trembled with suppressed cries. This was nothing new. Ever since they began to spend their nights together, Chloe learned of the demons that continued to haunt her husband, and how to live with them. But this was the first time anything this severe happened since their daughter was born. She put her arms around him and rocked back and forth. Eventually, Walter's tremors stilled. He drew away from her, wiped the tears from his cheeks. "Sorry."

Chloe leaned in to rest her forehead against his. "Tell me what happened."

"Men came to our house. Men I'd put in prison, that I'd killed. They—" he choked. The memory of his nightmare rose with dreadful clarity. "I couldn't stop them. I c-couldn't save you." He began to cry in deep, heaving sobs, full of such loss that Chloe's own eyes welled in response. She drew him into another tight embrace, tried to comfort him with words an physical closeness. "Shh. You're awake now."

"I'm awake," Walter echoed. He drew back to stare at her, to prove to himself that the words were true. She was real and unharmed. His nightmare hadn't seeped into the waking world. He kissed her, desperate to drive the memory of the dream away. Chloe responded willingly. She didn't know the details of what he saw before she woke him, but his anguish told her enough. They kissed until, breathless, they finally drew apart to stare intently into each other's eyes. "Chloe…" Walter murmured, uncertain of what he wanted to say.

Chloe shook her head. "No more talking." She gently pushed him until he lay back on the bed, then moved to straddle him. Walter gazed up at her, backlit by the dim glow of the bedside lamp, an angel to soothe away his fears. In a single, graceful movement, she shed her long T-shirt and let it fall behind her onto the floor. She pulled off his wife-beater, let it join her T-shirt. She bent down to lay a trail of kisses along his chest, up the side of his neck, until she reached his lips again. Walter's arms went around her. His hands wandered over the smooth skin of her back. They rolled on the bed until he was on top of her. Her legs were wrapped around him, the fabric of her panties and his boxers the only barriers left between them. He started to pull her underwear down when an image from his dream flashed through his thoughts, of Chloe's underwear being ripped off by rougher hands. He trembled.

"What's wrong?" Chloe looked up at him in concern. Her body felt soft and vulnerable against his.

"It's…could we…" He felt almost embarrassed to ask this. "Could you be on top?"

She offered a little smile. "Okay."

They rolled again until they were in the same positions as before. Chloe pulled his boxers down, easing the waistband over his erection. She stood up just long enough to remove her panties, then straddled her husband again. Her hand steadied his member as she lowered herself onto him. Walter's eyes fluttered shut for a moment. A faint sigh escaped him. Chloe began to rock against him. Her palm rested against his chest and she smiled. "You're heart's beating so fast," she whispered. She took his hand, placed it over her breast. "Mine is, too."

Walter's breathing quickened. He brought his other hand to her other breast. Chloe's hips moved in faster thrusts. Her head tilted back, eyes closed. A faint moan emerged from her slightly parted lips. The sound made Walter tremble again, this time in pleasure. He focused on the sensations to help him to banish the terrible memory of his nightmare. His hands kneaded her sensitive breasts. His hips rose to meet her thrusts. He groaned; Chloe's fingers touched his lips. "Shh," she grinned, "You'll wake Danny." She said it as if this was a wholly spontaneous act of lovemaking, and not an attempt to comfort him. Walter loved her all the more for that. He sat up, put his arms around her, and drew her into a deep kiss. Their tongues slid against each other, their bodies moved in shared rhythm. Walter's mouth parted from hers. He kissed her bottom lip, her chin, kissed a trail down her slender neck. Chloe leaned back as he worked his way down, past her collarbone, down her chest. He nuzzled the space between her breasts, listened to her ragged breathing. His hands slid up her back, then slipped to the front to cup her breasts. His thumbs stroked her hardened nipples.

Chloe braced her hands against the mattress behind her and leaned against her trembling arms. Her panting breaths and barely suppressed whimpers filled the room. She felt her climax build and began to thrust even faster, grinding her pelvis into his. A cry escaped her as she reached her peak, her earlier admonishment for silence forgotten. The strength in her arms failed her and she would have fallen back, but Walter quickly wrapped his own arms around her. Her entire body tensed as her orgasm washed over her. Walter felt his own climax approach and buried his face between her breasts to muffle his cries. They remained in this pose for a moment, the tension ebbing from their muscles until they could no longer support themselves and they slowly lay down. Chloe's head rested against Walter's chest. She listened to the rush of air in his lungs, the slowing pulse of his heart. Walter trailed his fingertips up and down her spine. She shivered. Her eyes wandered to the glowing face of the alarm clock. "Way past my bedtime," she murmured sleepily, smiling, "Might hafta call in sick tomorrow to make up for it."

"Don't do that."

She raised her head, saw the guilt in her husband's eyes. "You shouldn't beat yourself up about any of this."

His eyes turned away to gaze up at the ceiling. His lips compressed into a thin line. Chloe's brow furrowed with concern. "Tell me what you're thinking."

Walter shook his head. He felt her hand against his cheek. She gently forced him to turn towards her. He met her hazel eyes with is. "Tell me," she insisted.

His stomach churned. He could not look at her and say what was in his thoughts, so he closed his eyes. "Sometimes," he hesitated, forced the words to come, "Sometimes I wish I never met you. That we never had Danielle. So I wouldn't have to live with the fear of losing you."

His confession saddened her, though she wasn't surprised to hear it. "I understand."

His eyes opened in surprise. Chloe smiled, planted a light kiss on his lips. "I've had the same kind of thoughts as you. Maybe not as much, but I do get them. When I look at Byron's picture, or a storm passes through, I think about what could happen to you or Danny or Elsie, and how easily I could end up alone again. You're right, Walter. Anything could happen. But I can't let that fear dominate me, or I wouldn't have it in me to crawl out of bed in the morning."

She stroked his cheek. The skin of her palm rasped against his perpetual five o'clock shadow. "I know you don't think you deserve to be happy," she whispered, "but did you ever stop to think about how you make _me_ feel, and Danny? Do you think we deserve some happiness?"

"Yes," he answered without hesitation.

Chloe smiled. "You make us happy, Walter. You make us so happy. And we want you to be happy, too. Not sick with worry." She pressed her lips to his in a longer, more lingering kiss. "Can you try to do that for me?"

Try. That was all she asked of him. Not an impossible promise to never again wake her in the night with his terrible dreams, or to put aside all the worries he had and would have for their daughter's wellbeing, or to stop questioning his worthiness of her love for him. Only try.

Walter took her hand from his cheek, brought it to his lips. "Alright."

"I love you, Walter."

"I love you."

They pulled up the covers, and spent the remaining hours of the night in each other's arms.

* * *

NEW YORK

The boy couldn't have been more than three years old, dressed in a soiled T-shirt and faded Mickey Mouse underoos. Were it not for the bruising around his neck, his stillness could easily be mistaken for slumber. His father was trying to toss the body into a dumpster when Nite Owl arrived by simple chance. The father tried to stammer out some lame excuse for the situation; that the boy got tangled up in his bedsheets and choked to death by accident. As if Nite Owl would be blind to the obvious hand-shapes of the bruises on the child's throat. He didn't listen to the man's lies; he beat him to within an inch of his miserable life. Nite Owl then removed the little boy from the dumpster and lay him out on the ground, legs straight, hands folded atop his stomach. He wished he could find something to cover the body, but everything in the alley and the dumpster was too filthy.

What kind of monster would do such a thing to his own son? Nite Owl glared at the unconscious man whose face he'd battered until it was no longer recognizable. Now he understood why Rorschach started killing all the criminals he encountered. He'd known about the Blaire Roche kidnapping, knew the little girl was killed and the kidnapper was found brutally murdered, but he hadn't understood how it could so drastically change his former partner until now. His gloved hand wandered to the seldom-used gun at his belt. It would be so easy, so satisfying to put this scum down like a rabid dog. But instead, he grabbed one of his newer gadgets, an experimental cellular phone with an untraceable signal, and used it to place an anonymous call to the police. He then retreated to a nearby rooftop and watched as the cops arrived on the scene. He'd told them about the circumstances of the child's death, so they were less than sympathetic towards the bloodied and beaten father. Especially when the addled man mumbled something about it being the boy's fault.

When the alley was cleared, Nite Owl touched the controls on his wristband to summon Archie. The faithful Owlship swooped silently down from the night sky and hovered just off the edge of the roof, boarding ramp extended. Nite Owl mounted the ramp, which withdrew behind him, went to the cockpit, and lowered himself into the pilot's chair with a weary sigh. He'd had his fill of crimefighting for tonight. He set a course for home.

Laurie paced through the quiet living room. She hated not being able to sleep at regular times like everybody else. It was okay when she was still patrolling, but now it was just a pain. She hated the restlessness that come over her at two in the morning, or the need to sleep through the whole afternoon. Why couldn't her body's internal clock cooperate?

The sound of the basement door latching shut caught her attention. She paused in her aimless wandering to wait for her husband to make his appearance. "You're home early," she remarked, trying to sound lighthearted. Then she saw his expression. "What happened?"

Daniel meandered over to the sofa and sat down. His eyes stared straight ahead at the TV's darkened screen. "A kid was murdered. A little boy. His own dad killed him."

"Jesus." Laurie moved to sit beside him. She touched his arm. "You okay?" She winced a little; if there was ever a dumb question to ask…

Dan looked at her. "Part of me thinks I should've killed the bastard. But I just…" he shrugged, "I couldn't go through with it."

Laurie put her head on his shoulder. "If you had, you wouldn't be the same guy I fell for."

"Maybe we should both quit," he muttered, absently draping his arm around her, "before we wind up as bitter and screwed up as Rorschach was. What kinda parents would we be then?" His throat suddenly tightened as the memory of the murdered child rose in his mind. He reached under his glasses to rub at his stinging eyes. "Aw, hell."

Laurie hugged him tighter. Suddenly, her earlier silent complaints about her situation made her feel small and petty. "Maybe we should." Her hand went to her belly, which seemed to get bigger every day. "God knows, the fact that being a superhero's illegal should be enough of a reason. Breaking the law's not exactly the best example we could set." Not to mention the dangers they constantly faced, which could leave their child an orphan. Or make him a victim, should one of their numerous enemies somehow figure out their hidden identities.

For some reason, Laurie suddenly thought of the Silhouette, who'd been banished from the Minutemen because she insisted on being openly homosexual, rather than hiding it like Hooded Justice and Captain Metropolis had. The woman never wore a mask, never concealed who she was, and as a result, without the Minutemen to protect her, she and her lover were brutally murdered by one of her enemies. And this was when vigilantism was still legal, and masked adventurers often worked side by side with the police, rather than having to avoid them. If that wasn't enough to keep the Silhouette alive, what chance did Laurie and Dan have should the worst happen and someone with a grudge came knocking at their door?

Daniel seemed to sense how much he was bringing his wife down, and tried to lighten the mood. He placed a hand on her belly. "How's my kid doing?"

Laurie managed a smile. "He's fine."

"He or she."

"Betcha anything it's a he."

Dan gave her a puzzled look. "What makes you say that?"

She shrugged. "Intuition."

"Huh. Well, if it is a boy, do I get to name him?"

Laurie made a show of considering it. "Mm, depends. What didya have in mind?"

Dan hesitated. "Well…look, if you don't like it, that's fine. It's just an idea."

"You haven't told me yet," she grinned, "What is it?"

Dan licked his lips. "Walter."

It took a moment for her to remember who once had such a name. "Oh."

"You don't like it." He didn't sound accusatory, merely resigned.

Laurie straightened, but let her husband's arm stay around her shoulders. "I get why you'd want to name our son after him. He was your friend." God knew why. Ever since she met him at the very first gathering of the Watchmen, Laurie felt a strong dislike towards the faceless Rorschach. Even though nobody could interpret the constantly morphing blobs of his mask, something about the way the guy stared at her made her skin crawl. And this was when he was still relatively sane and didn't kill every unfortunate pickpocket and junkie he ran into.

"It's not just that," Dan tried to explain. His eyes were filled with sadness and guilt. "After Veidt killed all those people, Rorschach was the only one of us who had the guts to stick to his principles."

"If we hadn't compromised we'd have been killed right along with him," Laurie reasoned, "and it wouldn't have made any difference. Everyone would still have believed Veidt's lies."

"I know." Dan swallowed. "But that didn't make Rorschach any less right." The memory of Rorschach's last moments still haunted him. Standing in the icy wasteland, maskless and defiant to the end. And then nothing but blood on the snow. Nite Owl had watched it all and wailed at the death of his friend, helpless to prevent it, powerless to offer even a token attempt at retribution, for Dr. Manhattan vanished immediately afterwards. He'd knelt in the snow with his goggles and mask pulled away from his face and stared at the pattern of blood that was once his friend, too full of grief to even cry. Only when he finally stood and stumbled back into Veidt's palace, and saw his former comrade standing there, unmolested, did the emotions burst forth in an angry roar and he'd taken his sorrow out on the man once called Ozymandias, who out of pity offered no resistance to his swinging fists. Even then, in all his anger and grief, Daniel's basic decency wouldn't let him continue to beat on a man who didn't fight back. It wouldn't have made a difference anyway. When he and Laurie left the palace and headed for the waiting Owlship, Dan made one last detour to the site of Rorschach's death. Laurie had gasped at the sight of all the blood, then put a hand on Daniel's shoulder, her eyes filled with sympathy. "I'm so sorry."

His vision was blurred by unshed tears. He blinked them clear, the frigid air made the tears freeze to his cheeks. That was when he detected movement from the corner of his eye and wandered to a nearby snowdrift. He found Rorschach's old fedora, its brim driven into the snow and fluttering in the wind, and a few feet away, his discarded mask. Nite Owl picked up these items, tucked them wordlessly beneath the shelter of his cape, then he and Silk Spectre boarded the Owlship. He still had the mask and hat stowed in a cardboard box on a shelf in his lair. They were all that remained of his former partner and friend.

"I know this sounds ridiculous," he continued, hoping his wife might understand, "But I feel like I owe him, somehow, for not standing by him in the end. Like some part of him might go on if we give his name to our son… Does that make sense?" he asked, uncertain.

Laurie's expression softened. "I never got why you thought there was something redeemable in him. And I guess I never will. But if anything good can come from him, even if it's just a name, then I'd be willing to give it a chance."

Dan smiled, then leaned forward to kiss her. "Thank you."

"Besides," she continued with a mischievous grin, "my intuition might be wrong and we're gonna have a girl."

"Then we'd call her Wally," Dan countered.

Laurie grimaced. "God no! Wally? The kid'll be inundated with _Leave it to Beaver_ jokes."

"I liked that show."

"You would." She laughed at her husband's offended look. She ducked out from under his arm, stood, and held out her hand to him. "C'mon. Let's go to bed."

"I'm not tired," he said, puzzled by the suggestion.

Laurie quirked an eyebrow. "Neither am I."

A slow smile spread across his face. Dan accepted her outstretched hand, rose from the couch, and let her lead him to their bedroom.


	7. Gratitude and Sacrifice

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

* * *

NEW YORK

Laurie eyed the young woman floating beside her. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Jenna replied, but her pinched expression made the words less than convincing. She and Laurie lounged against the side of the indoor pool, letting the water support their increasing weight. Laurie's stomach had ballooned out the last few weeks, but Jenna's positively jutted. Laurie wasn't sure when the girl's due date was, but felt it was safe to say it was sooner rather than later.

"You sure?" she pressed, while a smarmy little voice in her head asked when the hell she became this woman's mom.

Jenna nodded, then suddenly grimaced. A hiss escaped between her clenched teeth. Beneath the rippling water, her hand went to her swollen belly. "I…I think I might need t' leave early."

Worried, Laurie leaned in and murmured in the other woman's ear, "Are you going into labor?"

"I think so."

Laurie wished she was somewhere else. She resolutely shoved those thoughts aside and took hold of Jenna's arm. "Come on." She helped the young, expectant mother out of the pool, dried them both off, grabbed their things, and headed out to the parking lot.

"You don't hafta do this," Jenna protested between breaths, "I can just call—."

"Forget it. I was getting bored anyway." She loaded the girl into her car, and they headed for the hospital. She was impressed with how well Jenna held her composure as each set of contractions hit, each more often and more intense than before. When they got to the hospital and the coolly competent staff loaded the young mother into a wheelchair, she immediately asked for the baby's adoptive parents to be notified and to see if her boyfriend was working today—not necessarily in that order.

Laurie could not have explained what made her stay. She had no reason to, now that Jenna was safely in the hands of professionals, and the girl even said it was okay for her to go…

She found a payphone and called home. Daniel answered on the fourth ring, his voice groggy from interrupted sleep (he was _Nite_ Owl, after all). "Yeah?"

"Dan, it's me." Laurie's free hand toyed with the phone cord. "Jenna's in labor. I just brought her to the hospital." She heard the distant rustle of bedclothes and the squeak of protesting springs and imagined her husband sitting up and pinching the bridge of his nose before picking up his glasses from the bedside table and slipping them on. "I think I might stay here 'til her baby's born," she continued.

"Everything alright?" Dan asked, voice tinged with concern.

"Yeah, it's fine. Everything's fine. I just…" she searched for the right words, "I feel kind of responsible for her."

Some, if not most people would tell her that Jenna _wasn't_ her responsibility. That she had no business getting involved when any number of medical staff had things well in hand. Jenna wasn't family; she wasn't even a very close friend. A sensible person would just leave and let those who actually had something to gain (i.e. the adoptive parents) worry about Jenna and her baby.

"Want me to come over?" Dan asked.

Laurie smiled. "Thanks. I'd appreciate the company."

Daniel arrived minutes before Joshua hurried in, hair mussed and clothes rumpled as if he too was roused from a good sleep. He paused at the sight of the couple seated in the waiting area's uncomfortable plastic chairs. "Hey, what're you two doing here?"

"Laurie was at the pool with Jenna when she went into labor. She gave her a ride here," Dan explained.

Josh took a moment to process this, along with the fact that the couple was still hanging around, and smiled. "Thanks. I know Jenna will be more at ease with you here. Have you seen her since she was taken to her room?"

Laurie shook her head, embarrassed that she hadn't thought to ask anyone if she could visit. Joshua beckoned, "C'mon. I got some pull around here." He trotted over to the nurse's station, the Dreibergs trailing close behind. The nurse on duty beamed in recognition. "Hey, Josh!"

"Hey, Rita. Were you here when my girlfriend was brought in?"

"Sure was. Figured you might wanna see her right away." She gave him the room number. With a warm smile and heartfelt thanks, Joshua and his companions headed down the appropriate hall.

Jenna's face lit up at their arrival. She reclined in the standard hospital bed, looking small and vulnerable in the all but empty room. Joshua went to her side and took her outstretched hand. "Hey there, beautiful." He gave her a chaste, yet affectionate kiss. "Hope you haven't been waiting long."

"No," she replied, then tensed as another contraction came upon her. Her grip on her boyfriend's hand tightened, but Josh showed no sign of discomfort. He coached her through her Lamaze, his free hand gently wiping the sweat-dampened hair from her brow. When the contraction ended, Jenna turned her smile to the pair who lingered by the door. "Hey, Sam. Did Sandy drag you all the way out here?"

Daniel smiled, shrugged. "I wouldn't say _dragged_. But she can be pretty insistent." Laurie gave him a fake dirty look, much to the young woman's amusement.

"Well, whatever the reason, I'm glad you're both here." From the look on her face, she was more than just glad. The blatant gratitude in her eyes made Laurie want to turn away, recalling the times she'd returned the girl's sunny chumminess with sullen terseness. Hypocrite, her inner voice accused. Nevertheless, she and Dan pulled up a couple of chairs and joined Joshua at the bedside. They spent the next few hours keeping Jenna company, though as usual she did the lion's share of the talking. She told Laurie and Dan of the plans she and Joshua made, how she would finish her high school education and move on to college courses while Josh supported her, and how they planned to get married soon. Children were not mentioned, but Laurie got the impression that a family was part of the couple's long-term goals. But not for a while; not when Jenna was so close to giving up her firstborn.

As if Irony were listening in on these unvoiced thoughts, the adoptive parents arrived. Laurie was surprised to see that the Bahmlers were an older couple, much closer to her and Dan's ages than Jenna's. They entered the room with smiles of elated anticipation, Mrs. Bahmler bearing a vase overflowing with sunflowers, which Jenna mentioned were her favorite. Laurie was somewhat relieved to see that the expectant parents treated the girl with genuine affection, rather than as a convenient incubator for their much-desired child. There was not a trace of condescension in their manner, only profound gratitude. Jenna reacted to them with equal fondness; she and her baby's future parents had gotten to know each other over the months, and she found them to be good and caring people. She would not have agreed to the adoption had they been otherwise.

"Phil, Angela," she indicated the other couple, "I'd like you to meet my friends, Sam and Sandra Hollis."

Awkward smiles and nods all around. Laurie noticed the glances at her thickening midsection and wondered if her presence was rubbing in the fact that the Bahmlers couldn't have a child of their own. Then she mentally kicked herself for being self-centered; none of this was about her, for god's sake.

Jenna's doctor made another one of his periodic appearances, checked to see the progression of her dilation, and declared her ready. While Josh, as Lamaze coach, and the Bahmlers were allowed to stay, Dan and Laurie were politely asked to leave the room, which they were happy to do. They returned to the waiting area, sat on a semi-comfortable couch and watched a generic talk show on the television bolted to the wall.

Laurie touched her husband's arm. "Thanks for humoring me."

Dan smiled, draped his arm over her shoulders. "It's fine. I understand that you feel the need to be here for her."

"Can you clue me in as to why I feel the need, 'cause I'd really like to know." Her mouth stretched in a self-effacing smirk. She leaned aside to rest her head against his shoulder.

Dan lifted his other shoulder in a half-shrug which she didn't see. "You need somebody to rescue, I guess."

The answer was not unlike the conclusion she had drawn. "She's got her boyfriend, though. Her knight in shining scrubs. She doesn't need somebody like me looking over her shoulder like some overbearing mother hen."

"Maybe not. But you can never have too many friends."

Laurie let out a groan. "God! I've been trying so hard not to be her friend. She's just too damned cheerful for me!"

Dan chuckled. "Well, opposites do attract. Maybe she balances you out."

"You calling me a sourpuss?"

"I think I'll take the Fifth on that one."

Laurie elbowed him, but not too hard.

The talk show segued to a game show involving lots of flashing lights and screaming contestants by the time the Dreibergs were informed that they were allowed to return to Jenna's room. Jenna had successfully given birth to a seven pound, twelve ounce girl. Angela Bahmler cradled the newborn in her arms, her husband beside her with his arm around her, both staring enraptured at their new daughter. "She's so beautiful," Mrs. Bahmler murmured, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Jenna lay in a reclined position on the hospital bed, sweat-soaked and exhausted. Her head was turned aside, away from the smiling couple and the infant. Though weary from her ordeal, her grip on Joshua's hand was as strong as ever. Her boyfriend leaned in close, his forehead almost touching hers, whispering quietly words that only Jenna could hear. The girl looked close to tears.

The Bahmlers broke from their trance long enough to approach the bed. Mrs. Bahmler held her precious burden out to the young woman. "Do you want to hold her?"

Jenna bit her lip, then slowly turned her head to look at her daughter for the first time. The baby had the withered, aged look of all newborns minutes old, with purplish skin and the barest wisps of white-blonde hair atop a head which had yet to round out. An objective viewer would not use the word "beautiful" to describe her, but parents can never be objective about their children. Jenna's chin trembled. "She _is_ beautiful."

Instead of accepting the tiny bundle, she reached out a tentative hand and touched a velvet cheek. The baby turned towards her touch, captured her fingertip in a toothless mouth, and instinctively began to suck. Jenna's face contorted. Love and tears overflowed from her eyes. Laurie, standing with her husband by the door, felt her own throat constrict. Her hand unconsciously went to her belly, to the unborn child which at that moment became so precious to her.

The Bahmlers' expressions sobered. They understood how close Jenna was to changing her mind, to taking back the child they'd spent so many years waiting for. Yet they did not pull the infant away from her. Instead, Phil Bahmler placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Thank you," he said quietly, "for trusting us to take care of her. We know how hard this is for you, and we are so grateful to you."

Jenna sniffed, nodded. She carefully withdrew her fingertip from the infant's hungry mouth, then turned on her side, away from the new family. The Bahmler's understood her unspoken wish, and wordlessly headed for the door, taking the baby with them. As they passed the Dreibergs, Dan and Laurie looked at the newborn and offered small congratulatory smiles, which the other couple acknowledged with solemn nods. Laurie wished at that moment that she could follow them out the door and escape this sorrowful room, but she knew, even though the young woman didn't look their way, Jenna needed her and Dan's presence, if only for the sympathy they could bring. So they stayed and endured the heart-wrenching sobs which began to fill the room. They watched as Joshua put his arms around the weeping girl, comforting her while her daughter was carried away and out of her life.

* * *

Laurie descended the stairs leading to the hidden lair. She and Dan finally returned home after several hours of comforting Jenna. The young woman assured them she was alright and encouraged the older couple to leave. "I'll be okay. I've got Josh here to put up with me," she'd smiled fondly at the male nurse, even as fresh tears glistened in her eyes. In truth, the Dreibergs were relieved at the chance to make their escape. They left the hospital feeling physically and emotionally drained. When they arrived home, they went straight to bed and slept for the next five hours. Laurie woke first, and left her husband still slumbering peacefully while she headed for the basement.

She strode past Archie, his circular windows darkened as if in sleep; passed the racks and rows of gadgets and equipment, some in the process of being assembled, others collecting dust; and came to a halt before the transparent glass cases which contained Nite Owl's and Silk Spectre's costumes. Her eyes wandered over the familiar contours of the outfit she once scorned, yet had always needed despite her loudest protests. She thought about her mother's costume hanging in its own case like a museum piece, untouched for so many years. For most of her life she'd wondered why. Why hadn't Sally Jupiter put it back on, as she so obviously wanted to, after Laurie was born? Why did she give it up in the first place? Even if she'd asked those questions, Laurie would not have understood the answers. Not really. Not until now.

Parenthood was sacrifice. Jenna sacrificed her right to be a mom so her daughter could have a proper home, one in which she would never want for anything: shelter, security, education, even love. It was a decision that broke her heart, but she made it because she knew it was the right one to make for her child's sake. Sally Jupiter sacrificed her role as a superhero so that she could be a good mother to Laurie. She might not have entirely succeeded, but she'd done the best she could, and Laurie understood if given the chance to do it all over, she'd still have made the same choice. Becoming a mother meant taking on the responsibility for another's life, of making decisions based on what was best for the child, regardless of hardship to yourself. That was the price of becoming a good parent.

Laurie stared at the black and gold costume, standing in its glass coffin, awaiting her return. "I won't go back," she whispered. It was an easy decision, even though it created a hollowness within her. It was a hollowness she would learn to live with, for her child's sake.

* * *

JUBILATION

"Oh, jeez, this is heavy!" Chloe grunted. She and Walter wrestled the folding picnic table down the attic steps while Elsie "supervised" at the foot of the stairs.

"See what they're willing to go through for your special day, Danny?" she said to the baby in her arms. Danielle stuffed her fist into her mouth, already growing bored. Her parents finally reached the foot of the stairs without mishap and leaned the table against the wall.

"Whew!" Chloe plopped down on the bottom step. "Glad that's over with."

Walter, not so winded as her, couldn't quite hide a smirk as he informed her, "We still have to get it down to the first floor."

Chloe's face fell. "Oh, right."

"Plus you both gotta carry it out to the tree," Elsie added with a grin.

"Yes. Thank you, Els," Chloe grated. She stood, wiped her palms against her jeans. "Might as well get it over with now."

Going down the regular stairs turned out to be easier, as they were not so narrow or steep. Still, it was a struggle not to lose their grip on the folding table. They then brought it outside and leaned it against the side of the house. Walter stared at it doubtfully. "Maybe we should just set it up here."

"Nuh-uh," Chloe shook her head stubbornly, "We decided to do this under the oaktree, and that's what we're gonna do."

There was no way to drive out there without damaging the landscape, and no one was about to suggest that. So they all went on foot. Walter put Danielle in a carrier which was strapped on him like a backpack, then he and Chloe each took an end of the table, Chloe in the lead. Elsie followed behind them, towing the red wagon which was loaded with the chairs and other items they would need. The journey to the old oak wasn't as difficult as they'd feared, though it did take quite a while. They paused at one point when Danny got a little fussy, but once she calmed, they continued on until the massive oak loomed into view. They set up the table and folding chairs under its spreading branches which rustled above them in the wind. They also assembled a portable highchair, then Chloe gently lifted the baby out of the carrier and settled her into it. Danny looked around her in curiosity, wondering what this was all about.

From the wagon Elsie produced a white tablecloth which she and her niece managed to drape over the table without it blowing away in the steady breeze, then secured it to the edges of the table with a set of clamps. Walter helped Chloe set out the dishes, while Elsie produced a jug of fruit punch and the birthday cake in its plastic container. She set the cake before the puzzled infant and removed the lid. Written in curly white letters across the chocolate icing were the words: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DANNY-GIRL! In the center was a single unlit candle.

Chloe stood back to take it all in, her mouth stretched in a proud smile. She turned to her husband, who looked equally satisfied with the results. "You ever have a birthday this nice?"

Walter looked at her. It was rare for his wife to ask him something about his childhood, probably because she knew it held few good memories for him. "No," he answered calmly, a statement of fact. His mother never troubled herself over his birthday, and in the Lillian Charlton Home for Problem Children, an impersonal group party was held once a month to cover all the kids' birthdays at the same time. There would be ice cream and a large cake, but no candles, and no names were sung when everyone recited "Happy Birthday." Any presents to be had were exchanged between friends, often things which were cobbled together in art class. But Walter never made any friends. When he moved out of the home and lived on his own, he saw no point in celebrating yet another year of life. He had nothing to be grateful for, nothing good to acknowledge. This only recently changed with Chloe; she felt that every year he lived was a gift worth celebrating. As was their daughter's life.

"Alright, you two," Elsie said in an authoritative voice, "Sit yourselves down. I'll take care of the candle."

Smiling, Walter and Chloe obediently lowered themselves into their chairs while Elsie pulled out a box of kitchen matches from her pocket. She dug out a match, struck it against the side of the box, and shielded the flame with her other hand while she lowered it towards the candle. Danny's eyes widened as her auntie's hands withdrew to reveal a little flame dancing on the end of the candle. It waved erratically in the persistent breeze, then suddenly vanished in a wisp of black smoke.

"Drat," Elsie muttered. She struck another match, brought it to the candle. This time, the flame blew out the instant she took her hands away from it. Danny giggled; she liked this new trick. Elsie tried yet again, and this time it seemed the flame might stick around. The adults were about to launch into the birthday song when the wind picked up and snuffed the candle for the third time. "Oh—!" Elsie visibly restrained herself from uttering whatever harsh words she had in mind in front of the child.

Chloe laughed. "Give it up, Els. Danny won't know the difference."

The older woman drew herself up. "It's tradition," she declared, and promptly struck another match…which blew out before she could even bring it to the candle. Even Walter cracked a smile at that. Elsie sighed, turned her eyes heavenward. "Fine, have it your way." She set the matches aside and took her seat.

Danny had no idea what was going on, but never let confusion get in the way of enjoyment. She grinned as the adults sang an unfamiliar song with her name in it, and when her mother and auntie applauded, clapped her own little hands as well, much to everyone's amusement.

Elsie brought out her trusty camera and snapped off several pictures. "These are definitely goin' on the wall. Danny, you are such a cutie! If you were any sweeter, you'd put a diabetic into shock."

Walter snorted in amusement, though he privately agreed with the assessment, biased though he was.

Dark rings marred the skin beneath his eyes, the only obvious sign of his sleeping problems. The dreams that haunted many of his nights typically faded once morning arrived. A small blessing, as was the fact that his waking was rarely violent enough to disturb his wife's slumber. Once he calmed down enough to lie back down he would listen to Chloe's steady breathing intermingled with the sounds of their sleeping daughter emanating from the baby monitor. Sometimes he would rise from the bed and silently make his way to the room across the hall to peer into Danielle's crib. On those occasions he would leave the room a few minutes later and make his way downstairs where Elsie, like as not, was up and about wiling away the hours until dawn. An insomniac comrade in arms. But of course, her sleeping troubles were nothing like Walter's. She didn't suffer from terrible memories and regrets.

"Walt," she said during one of those nights while they sat together in the breakfast nook, she with her tea, he with the glass of warm milk she insisted he drink whenever they were both awake in the wee hours (more mothering over which Walter feigned annoyance), "You know I'm just saying this 'cause I love you and I'm worried. Maybe you should talk to someone about all this." She waved her hand, indicating the dimly lit house, the silent darkness outside the window.

If Walter was irritated by the suggestion, his face didn't give it away. "Had enough of shrinks," he muttered.

"These nightmares of yours aren't going away by themselves." Elsie's brow furrowed. She leaned over the table towards him, her expression earnest. "They might even get worse."

Walter understood. He knew about post-traumatic stress and other such mental disorders that many people suffered after experiencing far less than what he endured over the years. They only way he'd survived for so long was to push his humanity to the farthest corners of his mind, to become a machine of violence and what he perceived as justice. A walking corpse, in essence. He believed the part of him that was Walter had died, until Chloe brought him back. But he came back damaged. All the memories of the things he'd done as Rorschach, the things he saw and that were done to him, which had not affected him before, all came tumbling down on him like an avalanche.

He knew Elsie just wanted to help him, but what she didn't understand was that he deserved this. He couldn't hell her that, or Chloe, because they would not want to hear it. But Walter knew he deserved to suffer for all the evils Rorschach committed, regardless of his motives.

He did not want Elsie to worry, though. So he smiled at her and said, "If it gets worse, I'll see someone."

"That a promise?" the old woman asked, not yet reassured.

He nodded. Elsie relaxed. She reached across the table and patted his hand. They did not speak of it again, and though things didn't get any better, they did not get any worse, so Walter did not have to break his promise.

And who could think of nightmares on a day like this? The sky was an eye-watering blue, the sunlight dappled through the shifting leaves above their heads which shushed and murmured as if the tree itself had a voice, and Danielle was happy.

Chloe cut the cake. As she lifted the first slice she noticed that Elsie had made a marble cake; chocolate and vanilla mottled together. Chloe looked across the table at her light-skinned husband, saw the quirk to his mouth that let her know the same thought occurred to him. She turned to her aunt and raised an eyebrow. "This your subtle attempt at a joke?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," was the older woman's prim response, but her eyes twinkled in that mischievous way her niece learned long ago to watch out for.

Chloe snorted, then carefully deposited the smallish square of cake onto Danielle's plate. The baby stared at it without a hint of comprehension. "That's cake, Danny," her mother explained.

"Caaay." She prodded it. Icing stuck to her hand. She liked the squishy feel and tried to mash both hands into the slice, but Walter quickly pulled her plate out of reach. Her expression morphed from playful to distressed. She stretched her arms out. "Uh-uh-uh!"

Walter returned the plate, but gently pushed her grasping hands away. He used a spoon to scoop up a small bite of the cake and brought it towards her. Out of habit, Danny obediently opened her mouth. The spoonful of cake went in and its sweetness burst against her tongue. Her blue eyes widened. Before her father could react, she grabbed a fistful of cake off her plate and stuffed it into her mouth, smearing her cheeks with icing. Chloe and Elsie laughed. Chloe said to her husband, "Looks like she might've inherited your sweet tooth."

Walter's severe features softened into a smile. It was well worth the hassle of lugging everything out here, as well as the effort it would take to bring it all back to the house later on. Even though Danielle was too young to understand the reason for this celebration, and would not remember it in the years to come, it did not detract from the joy of the moment. It was a perfect moment, and he was grateful for it.


	8. Howl and Blast

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

* * *

NEW YORK

Four Queues were beating a Knot-Top and his girlfriend. They used bludgeons to draw out the experience as long as possible. Lengths of pipe, a tire iron, and an aluminum baseball bat thudded dully against flesh, their strikes interspersed with occasional kicks from steel-toed boots. This seething mass of violence had progressed beyond shouts and screams. There was only the irregular thud-thud of the weapons connecting, the heavy breathing of the attackers, and the muffled grunts of pain from the victims.

The Bowman observed it all from a second story ledge. He had been watching for some time, as dispassionate as a vulture crouched over a dying animal, his bow and arrows untouched. In truth, he'd lost much of his enthusiasm for these nightly hunts. With the Archer conspicuously absent the past few nights, the lack of a competitor took the interest out of such pursuits. Still, Bowman supposed he should take action, if only out of pity for the girlfriend, whose only crime as far as the Bowman could tell was lousy taste in men. He straightened from his crouch, strung his bow with casual slowness, drew an arrow from the quiver strapped to his back. In one fluid movement he nocked the arrow, drew back the taut bowstring, and took aim.

One of the Queues raised his pipe to deliver a final devastating blow to the woman's skull and froze as movement flickered at the corner of his eye. He turned towards the mouth of the alley and scowled at the oddly bulky figure silhouetted by the streetlight behind it. "Th' fuck you lookin' at?" he spat. His companions paused in their mayhem to regard the new arrival with equal amounts of anger and contempt.

One of them brandished his tire iron. "You wantin' somma this, asshole?"

The stranger did not respond, didn't even stir. Overhead, the Bowman paused in releasing the arrow, as puzzled as the hoodlums he planned to strike down.

The newcomer's lack of any sort of reaction confused the four men. This in turn made them angry. The first Queue took a couple of threatening steps towards the figure, raising his pipe length suggestively. "Keep movin', jerk-off," he snarled the less-than-original dialog. The stranger remained unmoved. The rest of the gangster's companions joined him, their interest in the writhing, bloodied couple forgotten. The Bowman readied himself as the four Queues neared the silent figure with weapons raised.

There was no warning. An unholy sound flooded the air. The gang members dropped their makeshift weapons and clapped their hands over their ears in a futile attempt to blot it out. The battered Knot-Top couple convulsed on the ground. Bowman's fingers slipped and the arrow went wild, bouncing harmlessly off the wall of the opposite building. The bow fell from his slack fingers. His legs gave out and he fell to his knees, hands clutching the sides of his head. Had he been at ground level like the other unfortunates below him, the masked vigilante would have received the full brunt of the terrible screech. As it was, he barely maintained enough control of his body to keep from tumbling from his perch.

The four gangsters collapsed in agony and rolled on the litter-strewn ground, mouths gaping in unheard screams. The noise which was far more than mere noise went on and on, wreaking havoc on all caught in its path. And still the featureless silhouette stood at the alley's mouth, watching.

The Bowman did not remember passing out. He didn't remember anything at first. He found himself sprawled on a narrow ledge, one arm dangling over the side. He rose to his knees, flexing his arm until numbness gave way to pins and needles. He peered over the side and saw the alley littered with bodies. Even from up there, he could tell they were all dead; the Queues, the Knot-Top, the young woman. Their bodies were contorted, mouths agape, faces frozen in agonized expressions. Of the stranger, there was no sign.

Bowman clambered down the side of the building, his progress slow as his usual grace eluded him. When his feet were once again on solid ground, he looked around him aimlessly until his gaze settled on his bow lying on the pavement a short distance away. He stumbled towards it. The toe of his right boot clipped a discarded beer can and sent it tumbling. The Bowman stared at it in growing horror; he hadn't heard the metallic clatter. He removed one of his gloves, raised his hand up next to his ear and snapped his fingers. Nothing. He touched the side of his head and felt the dampness that had soaked through the material of his mask. His fingers came away with dots of crimson at their tips. A tremor ran through the superhero, starting at his red-stained fingertips until his entire body quaked. His hands scrabbled at his mask and barely pulled it up in time before he doubled over and vomited. He did not hear the splash of his stomach's contents against the pavement, nor the gagging sounds emerging from his throat. When there was nothing left but bile, he forced himself to straighten and pulled the mask back down over his mouth. He then retrieved his bow and stumbled away from the grisly scene, sparing not a glance for the corpses.

He needed help. He needed to find the Medic.

* * *

JUBILATION

Danny peeked over the edge of the playpen wall. Her daddy was busy assembling the new bike Chloe bought for herself the other day. His back was to the infant, his head bowed in concentration. Danny was restless. The playpen seemed to get smaller with each passing day as her chubby legs grew stronger and the days of toddlerhood drew near. She bent and flexed her knees, bobbing up and down in impatience.

The day could only be described as picturesque, and so Nixon vacated his usual spot on the porch for the shady pleasantness of the lawn beneath the overhanging branches of the young apple tree Walter planted not long after his daughter was born. The only parts of him that moved were his big, rheumy eyes as they slowly rolled back and forth, surveying the immediate area for no reason in particular. It was this laid-back attentiveness that allowed the lazy dog to witness the baby's latest discovery. With her gradually increased height and stronger limbs, Danielle found she could just manage to climb over the side of her playpen, which she proceeded to do with the single-minded dedication of an infant determined to broaden her experiences. Grunting with effort, she slung both arms over the edge of the pen, hauled her upper body up until she could then sling one leg over. Then, precariously balanced lengthwise, she began to tip herself over.

A few yards away, Walter struggled to loop the bike's chain over the gears, oblivious to his daughter's clandestine escape attempt. Nor was he aware of Nixon slowly raising his bulk, sauntering over to the playpen, and absently nudging the baby's diapered rump with his broad nose, tipping her back into the pen. The girl landed on the padded floor with a faint "umf" and gazed around in bewilderment. Didn't she just leave here?

Satisfied with this minor accomplishment, Nixon turned and slouched back to the flattened patch of grass that was his current napping spot and resumed his previous pose as if he hadn't moved.

Danny grabbed hold of the pen's top rail and hauled herself up to a standing position. She stared at the hairy mound that was the family dog and muttered, "Ba," recalling the rare times one of the adults would call Nixon a bad dog. If Nixon was wounded by the child's accusation, he hid it well.

Keeping one hand atop the padded rail for balance, Danny bent down and picked up one of her toys, a small plush lamb. She hurled the wooly object over the side of the playpen, falling well short of her intended target. "Ba!"

Nixon yawned, an impressive sight for such a massive set of jaws.

She picked up a Raggedy Ann doll her auntie made for her and flung it a bit harder than before. "Ba!" This time it covered a little more than half the distance. With a frown of determination, Danny selected a rubber squeaker toy in the shape of a lime green whale and threw it with all the strength in her chubby arm. _"Ba!"_ she shrieked as the rubber toy sailed through the air and struck the dog's snout. _Squeak!_

Walter quickly stood and turned to see what the commotion was about. He walked over and surveyed the scattered toys with a bemused expression. "Hurm."

Danny grinned. "Hurrrm!"

Walter blinked, then his mouth curved into an amused smile. He bent to pick up the toys, dusted them off, and dropped them back into the playpen. He then crouched down to meet his daughter at eye level. The infant peered at him over the pen's rail, her mouth and nose concealed behind the thick padding so only her large blue eyes gazed at him.

"Turning into a mischief maker," he declared in a serious tone.

Danny giggled. She pointed at the motionless dog. "Ba-ba-ba-ba."

"If you say so," Walter replied amiably.

Nixon suddenly raised his head just long enough to utter a single _whuff_ and then settled back down. Walter looked towards the driveway, saw Chloe's blue compact pulled in. She got out of the vehicle and waved hello to her husband and daughter. Walter and Danny, in turn, waved back. The sight provoked a laugh from the woman. Walter stood as his wife strolled over.

"How's the bike coming along?" she asked.

Walter gestured to the bicycle resting on its handlebars and seat, wheels towards the sky. "Almost finished."

Chloe walked around it, scrutinizing his work. Her eyes turned towards him and crinkled. "How far did you go before you had to look at the directions?" Walter had informed her earlier that morning that instructions were for those who lacked deductive reasoning; in other words, idiots.

He didn't respond; his carefully neutral expression was all the answer she needed. Chloe grinned. She went to the playpen, lifted out the baby, and kissed her cheek. "You been keeping out of trouble, sweetie?"

"Mmuh." Little hands patted the woman's face. "Muhmmuh."

Chloe's face lit up. "You hear that?" she beamed at her husband, "She called me 'Momma'!"

"What else would she call you?" Walter asked. He smirked when Chloe rolled her eyes. While she took Danielle inside and set about gathering up the baby's toys and playpen, Walter finished assembling the bike. He tested it out, riding a couple of laps up and down the driveway, before stowing it with the other bicycle in the shed. As he made his way towards the house, his gaze drifted towards a distant cloud front. The weather forecast that morning mentioned a chance for thunderstorms. Walter hoped it would pass them by, for Chloe's sake.

Inside, he kicked off his work boots and strode to the living room where he found Chloe kneeling on the floor while a few feet away Elsie stood behind Danielle, holding the infant's hands while she balanced precariously on unsteady legs.

"C'mon, baby," Chloe held out her arms, "You can do it."

Danny didn't look so certain. She raised her left leg and brought it down at almost the exact same spot. Her little brow creased as she struggled to figure out the mechanics.

Behind her, Elsie beamed. "She's gonna do it this time."

"Come on, Danny!" her mother called in rising excitement, clapping her hands in encouragement.

Walter stayed in the background, hands in his pockets, to watch the scene unfold. A sense of wistful melancholy came over him as he looked on his family from a distance. Despite all the reassurances he heard from Chloe, he continued to distrust his good fortune. At times it was all he could do to keep from pushing them away so the inevitable end would not hurt so much. But the months went by, and still the end did not come. It became easier for him to push such worries to the back of his mind, but moments like this, seeing his family laughing together, his sweet little girl rushing towards the next milestone in her development, brought home to him how fragile it all was. It didn't frighten him, but he did feel a little sad.

Danielle grunted with effort as she raised her leg once again and slowly, tentatively, took her first wobbly step. The women cheered as if she'd successfully swum the English Channel. The infant blinked in astonishment, then smiled because everyone else was. Walter's mood evaporated at the sight and he grinned. What did it matter if it all ended tomorrow or fifty years later? He could be happy now.

With the adults' unflagging encouragement, Danny managed two more unsteady steps before she lost her balance. Chloe scooped her up before her bottom made contact with the carpet and showered the girl with kisses. "My amazing girl. You'll be walking like a champ in no time."

"Thought her development was average," Walter remarked, concealing his amusement at their exasperated looks.

"C'mon, Walt," Elsie chided, "Everybody likes to think their baby's special. Even sourpusses like you, I'll bet."

Sourpuss? People normally didn't saddle him with such mildly silly labels. Before he could decide whether or not to be offended, Chloe walked over and handed over their daughter. "Here. Tell her how proud you are while I get out of these scrubs."

A lesser man might have leered at her statement. Walter merely gave a faint smirk, which earned him a sardonic look from his wife. She then laughed, kissed him on the cheek, and headed upstairs.

In the bedroom, changing from her scrubs to a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, Chloe's eyes kept glancing at the window and the ominous clouds in the distance. Were they closer than a few minutes ago?

They'd been ridiculously lucky so far, weather-wise. The last storm to pass through, not long after Danny was born, was so mild and ended so quickly it barely registered with Chloe's phobia. They were long due for something harsher.

_Walter and Elsie won't be the only insomniacs tonight,_ was Chloe's rueful thought. Aloud, she murmured a phrase her aunt often used during bad storms, "Howl and blast. Blast and howl."

She left the bedroom and padded barefoot down the stairs to find Walter gently steadying Danielle while she once again attempted to make her legs cooperate. She gripped her daddy's index fingers in each little hand, stared down at her wobbly limbs, frowning in concentration. The infant's expression was so serious Chloe had to stifle a laugh lest she distract her.

Elsie sat on an ottoman a short distance away, having taken her niece's place as the main cheerleader. "Just a little farther, sweetheart. Come on. Move those little feet." She leaned forward, hands outstretched to draw her near.

Danny uttered an occasional muted grunt, but otherwise remained silent as she made her uncertain way towards the older woman. Step by shaky step, she slowly closed the gap.

The phone rang, startling everyone. Danny lost her grip on Walter's fingers and plunked down onto her bottom. The short distance to the floor, not to mention the heavy padding provided by her diaper, prevented anything more serious than a slight _umf!_ Still, Walter hurried to pick her up in case the fall upset her. It didn't, but Danny wasn't about to turn down a little doting.

Chloe hurried into the kitchen to grab the wall-mounted phone. Behind her in the living room, she heard her aunt say, "Don't fret, Walt. Baby's are tougher than they look."

"Hello?"

_"Chloe?"_ It took her a second to place the voice, unaccustomed as she was to speaking to them over the phone.

"Olivia! Hey. What's the occasion?"

_"I'm sorry. I couldn't think of anybody else t' call."_

Chloe realized the quaver she heard in the woman's voice wasn't distortion, but sobs barely held in check. "What's wrong, Livi?"

_"Ha-Have you seen Alvie? He an' Fallon had a fight about something 'n' he ran right out th' front door. We can't find him anywhere. We've been callin' everyone, but nobody's seen him an' it's gettin' dark—"_

"Easy, easy," Chloe kept her tone level, "Have you called Hank's office and let them know?"

_"Y-yes."_ Sniff. _"They've got people looking. God, Fallon's a wreck. He blames himself for this. I—I don't know what we're gonna do. What if Alvin's hurt? What if he—"_

"It's too early to start thinking like that," Chloe hastened to interrupt, "We haven't seen him, but I'll tell Walter and he and I will look around in case he's somewhere out here. It'll be fine, Livi. He's sure to be home after he's blown off some steam."

She could practically hear the other woman pull herself together. _"You're right. Thank you for looking."_

"Everything will be fine," Chloe assured her. Once she hung up, she returned to the living room to repeat what Olivia told her. Walter's expression darkened while Elsie looked worried. The older woman agreed to look after the baby while Chloe and Walter searched the surrounding area for signs of the runaway.

The oncoming clouds veiled the low hanging sun, bringing about an early twilight. Chloe shivered, though the air was still warm enough that a jacket wasn't required. She tried to keep her eyes in front and ignore the ominous sky.

The couple searched the immediate area around the house first, careful to look in, above, and under every nook and cranny where a small boy might squeeze himself into. When their attempts yielded no results, they split up to widen their search to the surrounding countryside. Time ticked by and the sky grew ever darker. At one point a rumble sounded, as if some great beast was disturbed from its sleep. The wind picked up; the air held the faint scent of ozone. Chloe's fear increased. She was out by the oak, peering into the dark opening that led to the Leaving Place, where sad memories were laid to rest. It was there that Alvin hid the last time he went missing. It seemed logical that he might choose this place again.

"Alvin?" she called into the impenetrable darkness, wishing she'd thought to bring a flashlight. "Are you in there? Your mama called. She's really worried about you, Alvin."

Nothing. Not even the scuff of someone shifting position. Chloe sighed, straightened.

_Crack!_ Lightning struck less than a mile away. Chloe let out an involuntary scream and dropped to the ground, huddling against the side of the hill. "Sh-shit," she stammered, trembling, "Oh, shit."

A little more than a mile away, Walter spun towards the direction his wife had gone, his search abruptly forgotten. The storm was about to break, and Chloe was caught in the open, bound to panic. He cursed himself for letting her go off alone, but they'd wanted to cover as much territory as possible. They hadn't allowed themselves to consider the uncooperative weather.

While her husband started to run in search of her, Chloe fought to gain some measure of control over the terror that bloomed inside her. She squeezed her eyes shut, gritted her teeth. "Get up," she growled, "Last thing I need's to get caught outside in the rain. Get the hell up." She managed to rise up onto her knees. High above her, an ominous rumble sounded. Her hands shook. "C'mon, goddammit. _Get up._"

Something touched her ankle. Chloe squealed like a little girl who glimpsed the monster in the closet and whirled about, falling onto her back and scuttling away from whatever it was. It took several long seconds for her brain to catch up with what her eyes saw. She stilled her panicked flight, but her heart continued to hammer away at her ribs.

Alvin stared at the terrified woman, startled by her extreme reaction. "You okay? Didya hurt yourself?"

"Uh…no. Yeah. I'm okay." Flustered, she pulled herself up to a sitting position. "It's the storm. They scare the he—er—the heck out of me."

This astonished the little boy. He never knew grownups could be afraid of thunder. "It's okay," he tried to reassure her, "It ain't really starting yet. But we should hurry." He pointed at the oak towering over them. "Ms. Dutton said it's not good t' be under a tree in a storm." Ms. Dutton was his kindergarten teacher.

_Christ. I'm so out of it I'm being mothered by a six-year-old._ Chloe uttered a shaky laugh. "You're right. We'd better make a run for it." She struggled to her feet, dusted her hands on her jeans. Alvin reached out to take her hand, though for his sense of security or her own, Chloe wasn't certain. And what did it matter, anyway? She'd found him, and having someone with her helped her maintain her equilibrium. "Let's go."

Relief flooded him as Walter saw a running Chloe and Alvin come into view. Lightning flashed overhead; the woman visibly cringed, but didn't slow her pace. Walter hurried to meet them and pulled his wife into a quick embrace. None paused to say anything. The storm about to rage was motivation enough to make haste. They reached the house as the first fat drops struck the ground. As they mounted the porch steps and dashed through the front door, an invisible dam seemed to break and the storm struck in earnest. It was almost biblical in its fury. Trees flailed in the violent winds, grasses lay almost flat to the ground. Not even Nixon was willing to remain outside in such weather, and he slipped through the door behind the running humans.

"Thank god!" Elsie exclaimed, though from relief at seeing her niece safely home or because she and Walter managed to find Alvin was anyone's guess. More likely both. She hurried forward to embrace Chloe with her free arm, the other occupied with holding Danny. "You alright, baby?"

"I'm fine," Chloe replied. It wasn't a _total_ lie. Some of her fear dissipated now that she was indoors, but not much. Without conscious volition, her eyes were drawn to the wall where hundreds of family photos hung, to the picture of a younger her and Byron, her first husband. Walter noticed this, but didn't say anything about it. He understood.

Elsie drew away from the hug and turned her attention to the boy who stood a little apart from the family. Her expression was both relieved and stern. She handed Danielle over to her daddy and moved to take Alvin's hand. "C'mon, Alvie. We are going to call your house and you're gonna apologize for scarin' your parents half to death."

Alvin bit his lip and sheepishly allowed himself to be led towards the kitchen.

The windows flickered as if a giant strobe flashed outside. The thunder was deep and at times made the walls vibrate. Chloe shuddered. She huddled close to her husband and child. "Hey, Danny," she took a little hand in hers, "How're you holding up?"

Danielle stared out the nearest window, enthralled by the natural light show. She jumped at a particularly loud thunder crack, but was too astounded to be afraid. Chloe envied her.

"I sure hope this ends soon," she remarked, "I really don't wanna be kept awake all night."

Walter kissed her temple. "Will keep you company if it does."

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Maybe we'll find a way to keep me distracted."

Walter seemed to mull over the implications. He sighed as if he'd been given a chore. "I suppose."

Chloe sniffed, started to pull away as if annoyed, though her eyes twinkled. "Well, if that's how you feel—"

_RROAaarrr!_ Panes of glass in the windows rattled. Danny gaped. Chloe let out a yelp and clung to her husband, all playfulness cast aside. She mumbled something into Walter's shoulder, a repetitive sound. He bent his head a little closer to catch the words and discovered she was chanting "shit, shit, shit," over and over. He might have found it funny if he wasn't so concerned for her.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Alvin handed the phone receiver back to Elsie, who returned it to its cradle. "Mama said she an' Daddy are comin' in the car ta pick me up."

Elsie listened to the sheets of rain striking the roof. "Well, that's bound t' take a while. You hungry?"

Alvin nodded.

"Alright. Go and tell the others we're going to have dinner now." She wandered to the fridge to get the makings for sandwiches, disinclined to cook anything at this point.

Alvin shuffled into the living room. "Elsie says we're gonna eat now."

Walter looked at him, then whispered something to Chloe. She nodded, took the baby from him, and headed for the kitchen, leaving her husband and the runaway alone.

Walter took a seat on the couch, gestured for the boy to join him. Reluctantly, Alvin moved to sit beside the redhead.

"Your mother said you and Fallon had a fight." The boy did not respond, just stared down at his hands on his lap. "Not my business. You don't need to tell me anything, but it might help." He mentally snorted at this. So now _he_ was playing the shrink.

Alvin pursed his lips. He and Walter hardly spoke since their unfortunate conversation several weeks ago. Nobody wanted to learn that their hero was just another flawed man. It created an awkwardness between them that hadn't existed before, made the thought of talking about what happened all the more difficult. The silence stretched on, punctuated by the thunder roars outside. It seemed as if he might not speak at all, and so Walter started to rise from his seat.

"I dunno what we were fightin' about," the boy mumbled, hunching his narrow shoulders, "He told me t' do something, an' I talked back at him 'cause I was mad an'…" He drifted into silence, lost in the memory of the ugliness that occurred. What started as minor sniping quickly turned into an all-out shouting match as all the things unsaid between father and son finally came out. Alvin screamed all the hateful accusations and recriminations he'd held back for so many months. Olivia tried to intervene, but she might as well have tried to deflect a hurricane.

Alvin told his father that he hated him for what he did to Mama, and Fallon yelled back, _"Dammit! How many ways can I say I'm sorry? Don't you think I hate myself for what happened? That I'd do anything t' take it all back and make things the way they used ta be? I'm sorry!"_ His voice had cracked, tears streamed down his face. _"I'm SORRY!"_

_"I don't care!"_ Alvin shouted back, _"I hate you! I wish you were dead!"_ And he reeled back as a hand struck his cheek with a resounding slap. But it wasn't Fallon who hit him. He and Alvin stared in open-mouthed shock at Olivia, who trembled as what she did sank in. Her hands flew to her mouth and she turned away with a choked sob. Fallon went to her, she leaned into his embrace and the two adults wept together.

Alvin couldn't take it. Both his parents were crying—his mother was crying—and it was his fault. He tried to escape his guilt by running out the front door and away from the house he could no longer think of as home.

Alvin rubbed his cheek, though the pain had long since faded. Walter saw this and his brow furrowed. He leaned close to whisper, "Did he hit you?"

"No," Alvin's chin trembled, "Mama did."

Hearing this, an image sprang into Walter's mind: a woman, screaming her hate as she struck her child. But it wasn't Alvin and Olivia; it was a very young Walter and an angry, embittered Sylvia Kovacs. The situation was completely different, but he understood how devastating it was when someone you had no choice but to love offering violence in return, and how the pain inflicted went far deeper than a mere slap to the face. Walter's eyes stung in empathy. He put a hand on the little boy's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Alvin abruptly turned to bury his face against the man's chest and began to cry. Walter had little experience comforting children, but he felt none of the usual awkwardness as he put his arms around the boy and began to rock him gently. He didn't speak, only let Alvin release his pent-up sadness and guilt.

He knew the dynamics of their relationship changed. No longer would Alvin look on him with blind devotion. They were more or less on equal footing now, and despite the sadness of the moment, Walter couldn't help but smile a little as he comforted his friend.

* * *

NEW YORK

Though the brunt of the sound remained centralized in the narrow alley, much of it escaped to assault the ears of hundreds of people both indoors and out. Cats yowled and dogs bayed, rats dove into the deepest holes they could find, infants and small children burst into tears. The streetlights flickered like naked flames in a breeze. Even the sensitive instruments aboard the Owlship, which coasted hundreds of feet above the city streets, were affected.

"What the hell?" Nite Owl ran a diagnostic, but nothing was damaged. The interference ended as abruptly as it began, and all electronics reverted to normal. He checked his instruments, tried to calculate the sound's epicenter, then set a course. Nite Owl's gut told him he needed to get there well ahead of the cops.

It was a nondescript alley situated between two decrepit, possibly abandoned buildings. Too dark to see what might lie within, Nite Owl switched on Archie's floodlights. The alley's interior leapt into stark detail: half a dozen bodies motionless on the ground and a tall figure stumbling forward, one arm thrown up to shield its eyes from the blinding light. To graceless and shambling was the apparition, Nite Owl didn't recognize it for several long, stunned beats.

"Jesus." He hit the control which lowered the ramp, set the autopilot, and jumped out of the pilot's chair. He dashed out of the Owlship and ran to intercept the apparently injured Bowman. He put his hands on the mask's shoulders, fearing the other might topple over at any moment. "What happened? What was that sound? What killed those people back there?"

The black-clad figure stared uncomprehendingly. One hand held his bow in a loose grip, the other rose to the side of his head. "Medic," Bowman rasped.

Nite Owl's expression went from astonished to concerned. "Are you hurt?" He winced. Idiot, of course he's hurt! But the tall Headhunter didn't respond, only brought his other hand up to the other side of his head, nearly bumping his fellow superhero with his bow. This was no time to be asking questions. The guy was injured by whatever the hell occurred and the police would be there any second.

Nite Owl put an arm around the Bowman's shoulders, steadying him. "Come on," he said, not knowing if his words were heard, "I'll get you to the Medic." He helped the wounded mask board Archie and seated him in the copilot's seat. He then closed the ramp and quickly set a course. Seconds after the Owlship swooped away, the authorities arrived on the scene.

Once again Nite Owl found himself pacing the confines of the waiting room while the Medic tended to his latest patient. At least this time he wasn't as frantic over what might be happening in the next room. When the masked doctor entered the room, Nite Owl halted mid-step and turned to face him. "How is he?"

The Medic, his normally merry eyes somber behind his domino mask, shook his head. "He'll live, but if he regains even a fraction of his hearing it'll be a miracle. What happened to him?"

"I was hoping you'd tell me, doc." He told him the circumstances of the encounter, the strange noise which prompted his search, and what he found in the alley.

Though his face was concealed, the Medic's posture revealed that he was troubled. "Well, that certainly explains the damage to his ears. They look as if a couple of miniature bombs went off in the ear canals. Plus, a great amount of his capillaries have hemorrhaged. Everything's one big, painful bruise. Whatever the hell that sound was, if he'd been any closer to the source, I'm almost certain it might have caused severe internal damage."

"Which is probably what happened to those others I saw," Nite Owl remarked. He shook his head. "It's gotta be some kind of weapon. But why the hell would somebody use something like that on a handful of gang members? Why not just shoot them?" But even as he voiced the question, a sneaking suspicion crept over him; one shared by the white-coated figure before him, to judge by the widened eyes. "It could've been anyone, couldn't it? Just a bunch of convenient targets. Wrong place, wrong time." Guinea pigs for a strange new weapon. Which meant this was only a prelude.

"We have to find out what Bowman saw."

The Medic shook his head. "He was out the second the painkillers kicked in. He won't be awake for several hours."

Neither of them wanted to say it, but the implication hung in the air. Both were there at the height of masked vigilantism, when the Watchmen formed their elite group to battle the worst of the criminal element. Moloch, Big Figure, the Twilight Lady. Supervillains. Once masked vigilantism made its comeback, it was only a matter of time before their criminal counterparts began to surface, as if to provide some sort of balance.

Nite Owl wiped his mouth, a nervous gesture. "Okay, how long 'til he wakes?"

Medic shrugged. "Could be as long as twenty-four hours. Maybe sooner, maybe later."

"Alright. I'll come back here tomorrow, then. I need to find out what he knows." And, hopefully, who he might have seen.

Anxiety knotted Nite Owl's stomach as he piloted Archie for home. He shut the vessel down and put away his costume with a distracted air. When he emerged from the basement, he found Laurie waiting for him.

"Dan, I need to tell you something."

"Can it wait? I…something happened tonight."

His wife frowned in concern. She went to him, put her hands to his face and gazed steadily into his eyes. "What happened?"

He told her. As he related the story, a substantial part of him hoped that she would find a hole in his logic. That she would say he was jumping to conclusions, that it might have all been some weird freak accident. But as he watched his wife's reaction, he realized with a sinking heart that she'd drawn the same conclusion.

"All those kids out there, running around in masks," Dan shook his head, "They're not ready for something like this. They only know how to take down Knot-Tops and muggers. None of them has any experience dealing with someone at their own level."

"You do," Laurie replied in a level tone, "You could help them. Share your experience with them."

Daniel snorted. "Yeah, like they'll listen to an old fart like me."

Laurie shrugged. "What's the alternative?"

The alternative was to do nothing, to let them all deal with this new development as it happened, without warning or preparation. Dan sighed, lifted his spectacles to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Christ. Watchmen all over again. Remember how well that worked?"

Laurie hugged him. "I wish I could help." Their unborn child moved inside of her.

Daniel smiled and kissed her. "You're helping now. Okay, change of subject. What were you gonna tell me?"

She bit her lip. "It's not important. It can wait." A half truth. Now was not the time to inform him of her decision to quit Silk Spectre forever. It would only distract him, and he would need to focus if he was to warn his fellow masks of the danger that would soon beset them.

_Please let us be wrong._ The silent prayer echoed in both their minds, but neither of them really believed there was anyone listening.


	9. Contention and Support

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters. Nor do I own the lyrics to "What a Wonderful World" by Louis Armstrong.**

JUBILATION

The storm ended as swiftly as it began by the time Fallon and Olivia arrived to pick up their wayward son. None of them would meet each other's eyes. Alvin silently climbed into the backseat of the car, directly behind his mother in the front passenger seat, while Fallon thanked Walter, Chloe, and Elsie for their help.

Chloe hesitated, wondering if she was about to insult the man who'd already been through so much the past year. "Fallon, you know that, if you and your family need help, Lila could help you find someone to talk to." The town's doctor kept a list of reputable counselors and psychiatrists for those who suffered from more than mere physical wounds.

If the offer angered him, Fallon didn't let it show. He nodded, then returned to the waiting vehicle.

Walter stood upon the porch and watched the departing family in growing sadness. It wasn't fair. None of them deserved this kind of suffering. The Harrisons weren't junkies or molesters, they didn't abuse their son or each other. They were a happy, stable family once. Then a single mistake brought their happy little world crashing down. This upset Walter, not just because Alvin was his friend, but because it brought home to him how easily his own family could fall apart. Stability was an illusion, especially when a family member carried such deep flaws within him. The ghost of Rorschach could rise up and destroy it all; his marriage, his daughter's innocent trust, Elsie's maternal kindness.

Chloe took his hand, startling him from his troubled thoughts. "They'll be okay."

Walter's mouth twisted into a rueful smile. It figured that his wife would try to be optimistic while he sank into despondency. It was a difference that should have driven him crazy, but didn't. He truly hoped their daughter took after Chloe when it came to her outlook in life.

Hand in hand, they went into the house. Elsie switched the news on, mainly to see if the storm would make a comeback. Walter ignored the drone of the newscaster and watched Chloe seat herself on the floor beside Danny, who played with some of her toys on a blanket.

"Guess what, sweetheart?" she murmured to their child. Danielle stared at her mother inquisitively. Chloe reached out to stroke the baby's gossamer-soft hair. "Tomorrow's a special day. Tomorrow's your guardian angel's birthday."

Surprised, Walter's gaze wandered to the photo on the wall. Of course, Byron's birthday. Chloe continued to observe it, though with a days-old infant to care for, she hadn't been able to do much the previous year. Her first husband would have been forty-four, had he lived. She spoke of him often, little anecdotes, the quirks that used to irritate or charm her. At times Walter could almost imagine how that man must have been in life. Tall and handsome, full of empathy and humor. A man so unlike Walter. How could a woman fall in love with two such disparate men? Not even she could explain it, not that she really tried. It wasn't in her nature to brood over such things. She took things as they came, and when they were difficult she learned to deal with them. It was how she eventually got over the pain of losing Byron. She learned to cope without him, and moved on. But she never forgot.

Walter moved to sit beside her. The baby's eyes were immediately riveted to him and a brilliant smile lit up her round face. A smile she seemed to reserve just for him. He wondered if it ever made Chloe feel just a little jealous. But no, petty jealousy wasn't in her nature, either.

Chloe chuckled and nudged his shoulder. "She's such a daddy's girl."

He was surprised at how happy those words made him. He stared at his daughter. "Daddy's girl."

Danny giggled. "Da-dee!"

His breath caught.

"That's right," Chloe grinned, "That's your daddy. And I'm…?"

"Mmuh-muh." Danny scrunched her face as she tried to make her mouth form the word. "Mmuh…Momma."

"Yes!" Chloe laughed and clapped her hands in delight. "I'm Momma."

"Dad-dy. Momma," the child repeated her first words proudly. She beamed, waved her arms as if to say _Look what I did!_

"Els, did you hear her?" Chloe called over her shoulder. Her aunt sat on the couch, staring at the TV. Chloe frowned, puzzled. "Els?" She stood.

Walter rose as well, suddenly worried. It wasn't like Elsie not to respond like that, especially where the baby was concerned. She should have been bouncing off the walls over Danny's first coherent words. A sudden, dreadful thought occurred to him; did she have another stroke?

As the couple approached, they saw her cheeks were wet with tears. Chloe sat beside her on the couch, placed a hand on her shoulder. "Els? What's wrong?"

The old woman pointed. Chloe's and Walter's eyes turned towards the television screen. Chloe gasped, her hand flew to her mouth. Walter's expression turned stony. On the screen, an unseen reporter spoke in a trembling voice while the camera panned over a devastating scene. A normally bustling city street in New York was littered with motionless bodies. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of them. Men and women and (dear god) even a few kids scattered amongst them. Their eyes bulged or were squeezed tightly shut, their mouths agape in voiceless screams. Blood had leaked from their ears and noses. At the bottom of the screen was a disclaimer: THE FOLLOWING SCENES CONTAIN DISTURBING IMAGES. PARENTS ARE STRONGLY ADVISED NOT TO ALLOW THEIR CHILDREN TO VIEW THIS PROGRAM.

"Oh, my god," Chloe's voice was muffled behind her hand. She looked at her weeping aunt. "What happened?"

Elsie managed to force the words out. "They said it's some kinda sonic weapon. They were attacked for no reason. No reason…" She degenerated into sobs. Elsie buried her face in her hands while her niece tried to comfort her.

Over one hundred lives were brought to an abrupt end. A small number in a city comprised of millions of people, but less than two years since the massive crater appeared in the energy bomb's wake made this new incident a devastating blow for everyone.

"Why?" Elsie sobbed, echoing many others who watched this same news program or stood on the perimeter of the scene. Why did it happen? Who would do such a horrific thing?

Walter's hands slowly clenched into fists. The muscles of his jaw bunched. "A supervillain," he snarled.

The women looked at him. "Wh-what?" Chloe stammered.

Walter turned his icy stare on her. "Like we said, with masked heroes coming back, it was only a matter of time before the villains began to show."

Chloe wanted to deny it, to say that he was jumping to conclusions. Maybe it was a freak accident of some kind, or terrorists. But she saw the certainty in her husband's expression and felt the protests die in her throat. She felt an icy dread worm its way into her veins, not because she believed the danger might spill over into their sleepy little hometown, but because of the dangerous gleam in Walter's eyes that she hadn't seen since they left New York. _What're you going to do?_ She didn't dare ask it, because she feared what his answer might be. Instead, she croaked, "They'll catch him. The cops or the superheroes. Whoever did it, they'll catch him." Everything would be alright. But this time, she couldn't bring herself to believe it.

Walter turned and stalked out of the living room, leaving his wife and her aunt crying on the sofa, mourning for the newly slain and worrying over what he might choose to do about it.

Danielle, still sitting on her blanket, stared at the distraught adults and wondered why they were suddenly so quiet.

NEW YORK

Nite Owl did his best to spread the word. Reactions ranged from the suggestion that it was simply another high-tech masked hero to outright disbelief. It was understandable. Where superheroes brought a sense of adventure and security, mere mention of their criminal opposites, the supervillains, gave rise to fear and dread. No wonder, really, that nobody wanted to believe. Until the second attack.

It happened on a crowded street. In broad daylight. As a result, those not killed or disabled by the blast of agonizing sound were too panicked to act as credible witnesses. A handful of people mentioned seeing a homeless man in a heavy, rumpled overcoat, but none could recall his face. This was no surprise; even in the best of times, the homeless were all but invisible.

The Bowman, when he finally regained consciousness, was no better at providing information on the attacker. In the darkness, all he'd seen was a rumpled silhouette.

Bowman sat on the edge of the hospital bed in the Medic's lair. In his hands was his mask. He stared into the empty eye holes. Movement in his peripheral vision. His head jerked up. There stood the Medic, features hidden behind his domino and surgical masks. His latex-gloved hands lifted in a placating gesture, but Bowman already lost interest. He didn't bother putting his own mask on. What was the point?

The Medic waved to get his attention, then stepped aside to let someone else into the room. The Archer stood in the doorway, his unstrung bow and quiver slung across his back. Bowman gave a derisive snort, though he couldn't hear it himself. If the words Medic scrawled on his notepad earlier were true, he would never hear anything again.

The two masked men exchanged a few words, to judge from the movement of the fabric over their mouths, then the Medic stepped out, leaving the two Headhunters alone.

"Finally decided to show up," Bowman remarked. It was strange, feeling the vibration in his throat, but unable to hear his own voice. He wondered if he sounded strange. "Where the hell have you been?"

Archer started to speak, then stopped when it occurred to him talking wouldn't do any good. Bowman uttered a wry chuckle, reached for the notepad and pen on the nightstand, and tossed it to his partner. Archer turned to a blank page and scribbled his answer, then handed the notepad back. Bowman read, _Taking care of a friend._

"You're handwriting's for shit. And what friend? What was so damned important you couldn't even get word to me?"

Archer started to reach for the notepad when Bowman's hand lashed out and snagged the bottom edge of his mask. "Take that damned thing off and look at me." He yanked the mask off the other man and tossed it aside.

Archer, who in daylight went by the name of Joshua, regarded his brother with remorseful eyes. His mouth shaped the words _I'm sorry._

"Can't hear you, dumbass," Bowman snapped.

Joshua scowled and snatched the notepad away. The pen scribbled across the page. _I had to take care of my girlfriend. You know she's been having a tough time giving up her baby. I'm sorry I wasn't there, Zach, but if I was then we'd both be deaf._

"It's nice that you have more sympathy for some random chick you met at your day job than for your own brother," Zachary remarked. He saw Josh wince, saw him mutter a few words before writing something else.

_Don't talk about Jenna like that. I feel like shit about not being there with you, but what difference would it have made?_

"None," Zach snarled, "Not a damn bit of difference. That's not my point."

_No. Your point is you're upset and trying to take it out on me._

"Damn right I'm upset! I'm fuckin' deaf!" He pointed at a now useless ear for emphasis. "Don't tell me you wouldn't act the same in my place."

Joshua pursed his lips and wrote, _We can catch the guy who did this to you._

Zach stared for a long time, then burst out laughing. "Christ! Don't you get it? I'm disabled. Handicapped. Ka-friggin'-put."

_You're deaf, not blind. You can still shoot._

"You're right, I'm not blind. I can still read, and the Medic's been bringing me newspapers." Zachary leaned towards his brother. "Nobody knows who this psycho is or why he's suddenly blasting random groups of people. There's no leads, no witnesses worth mentioning, no demands made. What exactly are we supposed to shoot at?"

Josh scrawled his response, underlining for emphasis. _We will find him, whoever he is. __And we'll make him pay._

Zachary closed his eyes for a long moment, then shook his head. "You go right ahead. I'm done. I'm tired of playing superhero." His mouth stretched into a humorless smile. "Funny, you're the one who's been talking about quitting. Looks like I beat you to it." He looked up at his younger brother, was surprised to see the man's eyes filled with tears. He stood, pulled the shorter man into a hug. "Hey, cut it out. I don't blame you for what happened to me. I was just taking it out on you, like you said. It's the kind of thing brothers do, right?"

He pulled away, hands gripping Joshua's shoulders. His brother didn't look all that reassured. "You should quit, too. This isn't a game anymore, you know. You might not get off as light as I did, and you've got that girlfriend to think of."

Joshua's lips shaped a word: fiance.

Zach grinned. "No kiddin'? See, that's an even bigger reason to quit."

Josh brought pen to paper once again, then held up the notepad for his brother to read. _You're right, it isn't a game anymore. We have to stop him before he kills anyone else. It's what masks do._

Zachary stared at him. "Christ, you're serious."

Joshua nodded, even though it was not a question.

The taller brother sighed, backed away. "Well, guess that's that. I can't let you go on this crazy quest alone. If I did, and Mom 'n' Dad were alive, they'd kill me." He knew he gave in too quickly to convince either of them it wasn't about revenge. The anger that had steadily built in Zachary since he woke to a silent world now found its focus. He picked up both discarded masks, handed Joshua's back to him. "But after, it's done. No more hunting. No more games."

Josh nodded, mouthed the word _absolutely_.

"Still can't hear you, dumbass."

The brothers smirked.

They came to the agreed-upon place. Nite Owl, Jehu, Stonewall, Shadow Dancer, and numerous other masked vigilantes, including, to everyone's surprise, _both_ Headhunters. It was all too easy for them to agree to this meeting now, in the wake of their new foe's second, more brutal attack. Before, it was just a handful of the very scum they all spent their nights fighting, and therefore did not take it seriously. But this latest attack involved ordinary civilians, people most of the masked heroes still believed it was their duty to protect. As a result, many approached Nite Owl before he had the chance to find them. They wanted to know what he, the most experienced superhero, had in mind against this frightening new enemy.

They gathered in an empty lot, surrounded by tightly clustered buildings so that, should the cops show up, the masks could scatter and lose themselves in the maze of alleys.

As the one who'd called this strange meeting, Nite Owl broke the silence. First, he turned to the Headhunters, nodded towards the taller of the pair. "Is he up for this?"

_"I will tell the Bowman everything that's said here, later,"_ the Archer responded in the usual monotone.

"I'll take that as a yes." Nite Owl turned his attention to the rest of the group. God, even with their faces hidden, he could tell most of them were younger than him by at least a decade. He felt like a relic. "Okay, we all know why we're here. There's a new supervillain terrorizing the city. For most of you—" hell, _all_ of them, "—this is the first time you've ever had to deal with one. Let me tell you now, this isn't just another robber or drug dealer. Supervillains are the extreme of the criminal world, just like we're the extreme of the crimefighting world."

Stonewall fidgeted, which for someone of his size was akin to a tectonic shift. "Willya get to the damn point already?"

Nite Owl suppressed a sigh. "My point is, we're more likely to stop this guy if we all work together rather than trying to take him down individually."

"We're not gonna stop him at all 'til we figure out who the hell this psycho is," Jehu pointed out. The young hot-rodder was clad in a red, white, and blue racing suit, complete with a matching helmet with a tinted visor that concealed the upper half of his face. Typically, he managed to situate himself nearest the most attractive woman in the group, the lithe Shadow Dancer, who seemed impervious to his charms so far.

"Speed Racer's right," Stonewall said, earning him an annoyed scowl from Jehu, "Only thing anybody knows is this asshole _might_ be a homeless guy in a heavy coat. Hell, that's about half the dudes on the street right there. We gonna kick all their asses? Hell, I'm game."

"Of course you are," Shadow Dancer sneered beneath her elegant domino mask, "Smashing people into a pulp's your one true talent."

"It gets the job done," Stonewall retorted, "Least I don't twirl around like some goddamned fairy."

"It's tae kwon do," the woman replied primly, "An elegant and efficient method of dispatching one's enemies."

"So's a tire iron."

"Are you two finished?" Nite Owl interrupted.

The two combatants fell silent, Stonewall sullen, Shadow Dancer inscrutable.

"Now," Nite Owl continued, "we don't know enough at this time, but we can all work to gather information. The important thing is that we relay this information to each other, so we don't all run down the same path and avoid making the same errors. We have to organize if we want to outsmart this bastard."

Archer asked the question on all their minds, _"If we do find this person, what are we to do with him?"_

Nite Owl pursed his lips. "If we can, we should try to capture him and turn him over to the authorities." He wasn't at all surprised by the outburst that resulted.

"That's bullshit…" "…after what he did!" "…doesn't deserve to…" "…let the pigs come out the heroes."

He waited for their protests to die down to grumbles, then continued. "It's nothing more than a suggestion. We all know none of us has any authority over each other. But think about it before you make up your minds to ignore what I said. If we do capture this guy and turn him over to the cops, they might, just _might_ decide to back off from trying to arrest us. They might stop seeing us as just another group of criminals hiding their faces and start seeing us as the good guys."

He remembered beer nights with Hollis Mason, how the man who was the original Nite Owl reminisced about his time with the Minutemen. Back then they worked _with_ the police, often side by side with the uniforms to take down some of the most notorious criminal masterminds. The Watchmen tried to follow their lead, but, for whatever reasons, it didn't work out. Maybe the younger group was more volatile. Or maybe the cops were just tired of seeing a bunch of costumed weirdos steal the limelight. Whatever the reason, camaraderie turned into resentment, and then went even further into hostility. Nite Owl hoped to lessen this unfortunate rift between masks and cops, of only a little.

_"We still have to find him first, before we can decide what to do with him,"_ the Archer pointed out. His statement served to put the meeting back on track, for which Nite Owl was grateful. It would prove to be a long, frustrating night of arguments, impasses, clashing egos, and eventual resolutions. When it finally ended, they each went their separate way. Nite Owl couldn't help but wonder how long this uneasy alliance would last, and how disastrous its ending.

At home, a tired Daniel found Laurie seated at the dining table, sifting through newspaper clippings and handwritten notes. "What're you up to?"

She beckoned. "C'mere and see." She showed him what looked like a cross between a scrapbook and a police case file. "I'm organizing everything the media's been relating about the Banshee."

Dan quirked an eyebrow. "'Banshee'?"

Laurie shrugged. "It's what the reporters are calling him. Not my fault they don't have any imagination. Anyway, even though they haven't been giving out much information, I thought it'd help to keep track of it all. Maybe you'll pick up on something everyone else missed."

Daniel smiled, adjusted his glasses. "Thanks."

"Yeah, well," she patted her enlarged stomach, "Since I can't be out there with you, I figured I'd try to do something useful."

"This'll help." Laurie knew from his tone that he meant it. He wasn't just saying it for her sake.

Still seated, she put her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest. "How was the meeting?"

"'Bout what I expected. Lots of chest-beating and posturing before we made a little progress. Just like the good ol' days," he chuckled wryly.

"I hate not being able to do more. I worry about you out there all alone, me not there to look after you."

Dan laughed softly, ran his fingers through her short hair. "Guess I'll just have to be extra careful."

"You'd damn well better," she said, only half joking, "There's no way I'm changing diapers by myself." Laurie tilted her head back to meet her husband's gaze. Her features were softened by her advanced pregnancy. It made her look younger, somehow. Almost vulnerable, though Daniel knew better. He bent down to kiss her.

"I wouldn't have it in me to keep going if it weren't for you."

Laurie smiled, swallowed around a lump that appeared in her throat. "Smooth talker."

"I have my moments," Dan grinned, then kissed her again.

JUBILATION

Chloe went to the little family plot and found her husband's grave. Byron Whitfield, the man she once believed she would grow old with. She knelt before the simple headstone and placed the boombox beside her. Her eyes were clear; she'd shed her tears for him long ago.

"Happy birthday, baby." Her sure fingers found the radio's power switch. She pressed the play button and the classic sounds of saxophone music filled the air, followed by a gravelly voice. _"I see trees of green. Red roses, too. I see 'em bloom, for me and for you. And I think to myself what a wonderful world…"_

Chloe sat back on her heels. "God, there's so much to tell you about, though I'm sure you already know it all. Danny's said her first words, Momma and Daddy." She smiled. "Not the most original, I know, but who cares? She's growing up so fast." Her gaze turned wistful as the old question surfaced in her thoughts; what might her and Byron's children have been like? It was something she would never voice, just as she would never trade the life she had now.

_"I hear babies cry. I watch them grow. They'll learn much more than I'll ever know…"_

Her expression grew troubled. "I'm worried about Walter. Hasn't said much since we saw that news report yesterday. He doesn't say much anyway, but, y'know…" She trailed off, let Louis's rasping croon fill the silence. An unseen bird twittered in accompaniment, and Chloe grinned. "That a sign? Are you telling me there's nothing to worry about?" The bird fell silent. She felt no sense of loss at this.

"I still miss you, Byron. Every day." She reached out to touch the headstone. "But I guess you know that, too."

Chloe related more events of the past year while the cassette tape wound down. Finally, reluctantly, she switched the boombox off and stood, brushing the loose blades of grass from her jeans. "'Til next year, then. I love you."

As she approached the house, she saw a familiar redheaded figure walk around to the back. She set the boombox down on the porch, then followed. There she found her husband standing before the apple tree. She came up beside him, neither of them looking at each other. The day was waning, the colors muted in the dim light, washed out like an old movie film. Chloe scrutinized the apple tree's branches. "Is it growing any fruit?"

"Think it's still too young." Walter sounded distracted. Chloe glanced at him sidelong and saw a faraway look in his blue eyes. She bit her lip, gathering the nerve to ask her real question.

"Are you thinking of going back to New York?"

Walter's head turned with a suddenness that made her jump. "Back?"

His surprise relieved her, but she pressed on. "To go after this new supervillain. Do you think it's what you need to do? Because I…" Her voice wavered. She forced it to steady. "I'd understand if you did."

Walter looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He shook his head, but his arms around her and drew her close. "No. I won't go back. Why would you ever think I'd leave you and Danielle?" He nuzzled her hair. "Silly."

Chloe let out a choked sound, a cross between a laugh and a sob. "I dunno. Maybe it was the way you freaked out over that news report."

"I won't go back," he repeated, then drew back just far enough to kiss her cheek. "Besides, I left my mask in Antarctica."

Now her laugh was more genuine. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "God, you're gonna drive me crazy one of these days," she sniffed.

Walter smiled, hugged her tighter. They held each other silently for a while. Then Chloe asked, "What were you thinking about earlier?"

He sighed. "Was worried about Daniel."

At the mention of their daughter's namesake, Chloe kicked herself for not realizing that of course her husband would be worried. With a supervillain terrorizing the city, Dreiberg was sure to be in the thick of it. And here was Walter, miles away in a little rural town, unable to help his former partner and oldest friend. "I'm sorry. I didn't even think about what it must be like for you, knowing he's out there."

"Were too busy worrying about _me,_" he chuckled quietly. His lips brushed against the side of her neck, making Chloe shiver. Walter liked that he could make her react that way, and so he did it again. Her sigh was like the soughing of the wind through the trees, a musical sound.

"Elsie's jealous over Danny's first words," Chloe murmured, changing the subject with an abruptness that almost made Walter laugh.

"Oh?" He gently tugged her shirt collar down and planted a trail of light kisses along her exposed shoulder.

"Yeah," she breathed into his ear, "She's trying to teach her to say 'auntie.'" Chloe slid her hand under his shirt and caressed the skin at the small of his back.

"How's she doing?" Walter murmured, only half listening. It took Chloe a moment to recall what they were talking about.

"Umm…I think she got her to say something like 'tee'."

Walter dropped all pretense at a conversation and all but slammed his mouth against hers. They stumbled a couple of steps until Chloe's back was against the narrow trunk of the apple tree. A couple of small branches caught in her hair. She absently batted them away and one of them ricocheted back to slap against Walter's cheek. He flinched. "Ow."

Chloe clapped a hand to her mouth, muffling her laughter. "Maybe we should go inside now."

Walter grinned and rubbed the welt on his cheek. "Good idea."

Arms twined around each other, they strode from the garden back to the house. Along the way Walter glanced past his wife's shoulder in the direction of the family's cemetery. _Happy birthday, Byron._

The trees sighed.


	10. Life Begins and Life Goes On

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters, nor do I own the lyrics to the Beatles' song _Ob-La-Di_.**

NEW YORK

The only thing more dangerous than a madman was an ingenious madman.

Daniel sat in his underground lair, the schematics for the screecher arrayed on the table before him. The screecher was a nonlethal weapon of his own design which utilized a sonic blast powerful enough to shatter glass and make the hardiest enemies writhe in pain. The instant he heard of the Banshee's sonic weapon, he thought of his screecher, how similar both were, and the obvious disparity in their uses. Nite Owl's screecher was meant only to disable. He couldn't use it for killing even if he wanted to, because as far as he knew, it was impossible to kill with sound. But the Banshee accomplished it. It took all of Daniel's inventiveness, and not a few outside consultations, to perfect his screecher, and when it was finished it was so unwieldy the only way he could use it was to install it in the Owlship. Not only was Banshee's sonic weapon far more powerful, but the damn thing was portable!

And how the hell could such a thing be used without killing the one who wielded it? Dan suspected it was a combination of geography and preparedness. The sound radiated outward from the source, and since Banshee was the source, the deadly sonic impulses moved away from him, thus limiting his exposure. For further protection, he probably wore some sort of gear under that bulky coat witnesses saw him in.

Those sonic blasts were truly horrific. Not only did they destroy unprotected ears within seconds, but they were violent enough to create multiple aneurisms and burst blood vessels, which was the main cause of death for the victims. Massive internal hemorrhaging.

"Why in god's name are you doing this?" Daniel whispered. Banshee took nothing from the scenes of his crimes. Stole nothing but people's lives. Was it terrorism? If so, why didn't he send out a message to the media to explain his cause. Revenge? Against whom, and for what slight? No one could think up a motive for the attacks. Banshee's actions seemed completely random, which made him even more terrifying to the city's residents and had the authorities and crimefighters ramming their heads against the wall.

Dan took off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose. A growl of frustration vibrated in his throat.

_"Dan?"_ His wife's voice echoed tinnily. Daniel slipped his glasses back on, rose from his seat with a grunt of effort (getting old), and went to the intercom beside the exit. He pressed the button marked "talk." "Yeah?"

_"Can you come up here?"_ Laurie asked, her tone somewhat reedy, _"I need you to give me a ride."_

Daniel frowned. "To where?" And why couldn't she drive herself or take the bus?

The speaker gave a faint crackle. _"To the hospital."_

Another appointment already? "Be right up." He gave the schematics a final lingering glance before he shut off the lights and stepped through the exit. He climbed the dimly lit stairs to the main floor, still mentally pondering the meager facts of the Banshee problem. He was so distracted he was almost at the top of the stairs when something clicked at the back of his mind. "Oh…!" Daniel rushed up the last few steps and barreled through the door to find Laurie waiting, her face tight with strain and huffing in a distinct pattern of breaths.

Daniel gaped. "Ohmigod!"

Laurie managed a laugh. "Keep it together, honey."

"You're having the baby!"

"Not at this exact moment," she said in a soothing voice, "That's why I need a ride to the hospital."

"Right. Right. Uh…" Dan patted his pockets, looked around frantically. "Where's my keys?"

Laurie pointed, smirking. "The end table. Right where you always leave them."

"Right!" He dashed forward, snatched the keys up with a noisy jangle, then hurried to his wife's side and took her arm. "C'mon! We gotta hurry." As if she might give birth right there in the living room.

They made their cautious way out the door and began to negotiate their way down the front stoop. Halfway down, Dan remembered something and rushed back inside while Laurie continued her descent. Moments later he returned with a prepacked duffel bag slung over one shoulder, started down the steps, then remembered he needed to lock the door and hurried back up again. Throughout her husband's frantic activities, Laurie maintained her composure, walking slowly down the steps and heading for the car. She waited patiently while Dan fumbled with the keys until finally found the one to unlock the car doors. He tossed the duffel into the backseat and the two of them got into the car. It was then that Laurie suddenly snatched the keys from Dan's shaking hand before he managed to get the right one into the ignition.

"Okay," she said before he could even open his mouth to protest, "Before we head out, I want you to take a deep breath."

"Laurie! We don't have time—"

"We got plenty of time. The last thing either of us needs is for you to go plowing through someone's lawn because you're in a hurry. The hospital's not going anywhere, sweetie, and neither's the baby for the time being. Now. Close your eyes."

Dan scowled, lips compressed into an obstinate line. Laurie smiled. "Go on," she cajoled, "Close 'em."

He sighed, shut his eyes.

"Now, take a deep breath. Let it out nice and slow. That's it. Do it again. In…and out."

A long sigh, and Daniel felt his pulse slow. He opened his eyes, flashed a sheepish grin. Laurie smiled and handed him the keys. "Let's go."

The car maintained a reasonable speed. Laurie switched on the radio, tuned into an oldies station. The Beatles' _Ob-La-Di_ was playing. When the next contraction hit, Laurie did her Lamaze in time to the chorus's lyrics, much to her husband's amusement.

_"Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, brah!_ _Lala how the life goes on."_

When the couple entered the hospital minutes later, one of the nurses commented on how calm and collected the expectant father was. Walking beside the wheelchair conveying his wife, Dan shared a look with Laurie. She grinned, then hissed as another contraction came on. As she resumed her Lamaze, Dan started to hum the Beatles song. The couple soon degenerated into giggles.

Everything went smoothly. An almost textbook birth, according to the doctor. Laurie attributed this to the marvelous epidural she was given and swore she would name the baby after the anesthesiologist, provided it was a girl. Alas, this did not come to pass. A few intense hours later, Laurie cradled her newborn son in her arms.

She'd never been so exhausted. Her skin was flushed, hair plastered to her sweaty brow, and sore all over. Yet she'd also never been happier than she was staring down at the wrinkly, equally exhausted infant. His wizened features, his teeny-tiny fingers and toes, his solemn dark eyes. Laurie felt her husband against her shoulder as he leaned over to get a better view.

"This what love at first sight's like?" Daniel asked in a hush tone. Whether to keep from disturbing the baby or simply from awe, he couldn't say.

"I think it is." Laurie touched the light down on her son's head. The baby yawned and snuggled against her, and she felt a surge of protectiveness for this fragile little thing. She gently brought her lips to the baby's crown, then turned to her husband, eyes shining with inexpressible emotion. "I'm still not calling him Wally."

Daniel chuckled. "We'll see."

* * *

In the late night, Jenna woke to the feel of a weight beside her rising from the bed. Through half-closed eyes she observed the familiar shape of her boyfriend as he traversed the bedroom they shared and silently stepped through the door. This was not a new occurrence. For many nights since Joshua invited her to move in with him she'd woken to his secretive exits. In the mornings he behaved as if nothing happened, and for a while Jenna played along. This was a scenario she was familiar with. Some of her earliest memories of her father were of him sneaking out in the middle of the night. She didn't realize there was anything wrong, because her mother behaved quite normally each morning. It wasn't until Jenna was older that her suspicions grew, but instead of confronting her father, she meekly asked her mother why she put up with it.

"He might not be perfect," her mother had replied, "He may have needs that I can't take care of, but he always comes home to us." Until one day he didn't. Her mother didn't even acknowledge that he was gone. She simply continued on as always, convinced somehow that he would one day show up again. But he never did.

Like her mother, Jenna avoided confrontations. Like her mother, she was a light sleeper. Like her mother, she kept quiet over what she thought she knew. Jenna didn't want to be like her mother anymore; used and cast aside by a thoughtless man who saw her as nothing but a moderately enjoyable diversion. She'd already made that mistake once and ended up pregnant with a baby she couldn't care for. She didn't want to repeat that mistake. So, Jenna counted to ten in her head, then quietly rose and padded after him. She found him in the living room halfway out the window which led to the fire escape. Joshua froze.

"Where are you going?" she asked, unable to bring her voice above a whisper.

Josh stared at his girlfriend, her features vague in the faint light that came through the open window. He could practically see her trembling, afraid of what his answer might be.

"Where are you going?" Jenna asked again, a little louder than before. She sounded close to tears. She suspected a betrayal, another woman. She didn't trust him, and why should she, considering her past experiences with men and the fact that he was sneaking off almost every night? Her suspicion still hurt. Joshua chastised himself for that. How could he expect her to trust him when he would not give her the same benefit? It was a risk, a terrible risk, for both of them. But, he realized, he wanted to show her that he trusted her. He wanted to earn her trust in him. He held out his hand. "Come with me."

Jenna hesitated, afraid to know, but made herself take his outstretched hand and followed him out onto the fire escape. Even through the soles of her thick slippers, she felt the cold of the metal seep through. Instead of descending, Josh led her up the rickety structure to the building's roof. Rarely did anyone bother to go there. The dilapidated remains of an ancient pigeon coop dominated the center of the gravel-topped roof. The gravel crunched beneath their feet as Joshua led his girlfriend around to the rear of the coop where the partially collapsed roof left a small pile of warped boards leaning against the structure. He knelt, moved some of the larger planks aside to reveal a shapeless lump which Jenna recognized as a duffel bag when he grabbed the strap to lift it out of its hiding place. He set it before him, then lifted his gaze to hers.

"I've been doing this way before I ever met you."

"What?" Jenna breathed, suddenly frightened. Oh god, he wasn't a drug dealer, was he?

Josh unzipped the bag, reached in, and pulled out the contents one by one, setting them in a row between him and Jenna. An odd pair of boots with soft, flat soles. A shirt and pair of trousers mottled in various shades of dark gray, as well as what appeared to be a ski mask and gloves. And lastly, an unstrung black blow and a matching quiver filled with black arrows. Jenna's eyes widened as each of these objects was set out until they looked like they might tumble out of her skull. She gaped at them, at her boyfriend, back and forth. Finally, a single word emerged from her, "Oh…!"

"Yeah," Josh sighed, "I'm one of the Headhunters."

It was too unreal. Jenna didn't know how to react. Should she be relieved he wasn't cheating on her or that he wasn't a drug pusher? Terrified that he was, according to police, a violent criminal? Or angry that he kept all this from her?

"Which one are you?" she asked, eyes riveted to the bow and arrows.

"Archer."

"Do I know the other one? Bowman?"

Joshua hesitated. Revealing himself was one thing, but Zach? Before he could think of a response, Jenna shook her head. "Never mind. I guess it's bad enough my knowing about you."

Josh stood and stepped over the incriminating items to stand before her. He gently placed his hands on her shoulders. "I'm sorry."

"Why'd you ask me to move in? You must've known you couldn't keep this a secret from me. Why'd you do it?"

It was a question that had been running through his mind since it happened. Josh knew it was reckless of him to ask her to move in, but feared she would fall apart alone after giving up her child. His brother accused him of playing hero, a knight in shining armor protecting the delicate princess. What troubled Josh most was the possibility that Zach might be right. He told Jenna more than once that he loved her, but was that true? Did he really love her, or was it only protectiveness?

Jenna drew back, putting some distance between them. "Was it just to take care of me?" she asked, echoing his own internal questions. Tears welled in her eyes. She shook her head. "I might be stupid and helpless, but I'm not a child. I don't just wanna be _cared for_. And I don't want to live with you if you're just gonna get yourself killed or arrested later."

"That won't happen," he said.

Jenna laughed bitterly. "There's no way you can know that." She turned away from him and began to head for the fire escape ladder. "I'll find someplace else to stay tomorrow."

Josh darted forward, grabbed her arm, forcing her to turn and face him. She tried to jerk away, but his grip was firm. "You don't need to do that," Josh insisted.

"Yes I do," Jenna all but sobbed, trying to break his grip, "I'd rather leave than have someone else taken from me."

Joshua pulled her against him, his arms around her. "Please. Don't leave."

"Then quit," she retorted, her tone edged with desperation, "Get rid of that stuff and just be you."

"I want to," he said, and realized this was true, "But I can't. Not until the Banshee's been stopped."

"There's lots of other masks out there looking for him! Why do you have to do it?"

"Because he hurt my…my partner." He almost said _my brother_. "Bowman. He almost got killed by Banshee's weapon. I have to at least try to stop him before any more masks are hurt or killed."

"But what if that last attack was it? What if he doesn't show anymore? Are you just gonna keep looking forever?" Jenna couldn't handle that.

Josh pursed his lips. "Give me six months," he proposed, "If nothing happens before then, I promise I'll quit."

Jenna shook her head. "Three months."

"Five." Josh resisted the urge to laugh at this strange bidding war.

"Four," she spoke with an air of finality.

Josh nodded. "Okay. Four months, then it's done."

She leaned her forehead against his shoulder. "It's not just because I need you."

"I know." He stroked her blonde hair.

"I love you."

"I—"

"Don't say it unless you mean it," she interrupted, "I don't want you to like me just 'cause you feel sorry for me."

With a growing sense of guilt, Joshua kept quiet. He felt his silence open a rift between them that no amount of physical closeness could span. He tightened his arms around her nonetheless, and felt her embrace in return.

* * *

JUBILATION

"He's beautiful." Chloe cradled the newborn in her arms. Beside her, the proud new parents beamed. Seth Dobbins was born to Henry and Ceecee two days ago. The only person more elated than them was Zane, who spent much of the previous day parading his new grandson around the town, showing him off, until Henry finally managed to regain possession of the infant.

Chloe smiled at her oldest friend and his wife. "He's got your eyes, Hank."

"Yeah," Henry grinned, one long arm slung over Ceecee's petite shoulder.

Seth did indeed inherit his father's almond-shaped eyes, courtesy of a Japanese grandmother. His skin, however, was a darker shade, similar to his mother's. Chloe wondered if he would grow as tall as Henry, or would Cecee's genetic influence result in a more moderate height for the boy?

"Look, Danny." Chloe turned towards her daughter who was being carried by Walter. "This is Seth. You and him are gonna grow up together."

Danny peered at the half-asleep infant. Mild curiosity quickly gave way to indifference, and she turned away to stare over her father's shoulder at the activity going on around them. It was the day of the pumpkin patch, when the town's families wandered through the rows of vines selecting the pumpkins that would become this year's jack-o-lanterns. It was a tradition started by Elsie and taken on by Walter when he came to Jubilation and discovered an affinity for gardening. This was his second pumpkin patch, and it was a grand success. The vegetables were picture-perfect, large and round and vibrant orange. A few were so big it took two strong men to lift them. Children dashed about, shouting to their parents, each other, or just for the sake of shouting. They darted excitedly from one pumpkin to the next, declaring it the perfect choice only to just as quickly change their minds and hurry to the next one. Throughout this merry chaos Elsie roamed, praising youngsters for their choices or offering suggestions to those who remained undecided. This was one of her favorite days, when families gathered to have fun and anticipate the coming holiday. For many years, this was the closest she came to family life until Chloe and Walter came to live with her, followed soon after by Danielle.

Walter observed it all, Elsie with the kids, Chloe with her childhood friend's newborn in her arms, Danny's rapt attention at the joyous chaos of the pumpkin patch. For most people, his expression gave away nothing of what he might have felt, but when Chloe looked, she knew he was happy. She handed the baby to Ceecee and went to stand beside her husband. Her arms went around his narrow waist and she leaned her weight against him. Walter looked at her and the corners of his mouth turned upward, just a little.

Danny began to squirm in discomfort. A faint whiff reached Walter's nostrils. "Needs changing," he muttered.

Chloe withdrew her arms from his waist and reached for the child. "I'll take care of it."

Walter relinquished his daughter and watched the two of them head back to the house. Danny gazed at him over her mother's shoulder. Her little hand waved bye-bye. Walter smiled.

A few rows down, Alvin wandered amongst the ripe pumpkins, scrutinizing the vegetables with a serious frown on his young face. His parents followed a few paces behind him, holding hands. The family started to see a counselor not long after Alvin ran away. It was a difficult thing, opening up to a stranger, but the counselor was a competent, reassuring man and with his help they were all gradually making some headway. The pumpkin patch was the first outing they'd spent together as a family in quite some time. So far, nothing worse than a few uncomfortable silences had occurred.

Alvin paused at a somewhat oval-shaped pumpkin. The side that faced him had a series of shallow indentations that brought to mind the features of a face. Alvin touched the hard, almost leathery surface, tracing the impressions with his fingertips. He looked up at his parents.

"That one?" Olivia asked quietly. Alvin nodded. He put his arms around the pumpkin and tried to lift it. The thing was half as big as him. He grunted and strained until Fallon moved to crouch beside him. He eyed his father warily.

Fallon nodded at the pumpkin. "Need some help?"

Alvin hesitated, glanced at his mother who gave a slight nod of encouragement. "'Kay."

Fallon took hold from the other side, and at the count of three he and his son lifted the oversized vegetable off the ground. They tottered down the row towards the area where the car was parked, Fallon doubled over, Alvin frowning with far too serious an expression on his six-year-old face. Olivia couldn't help but laugh at the sight of them. This made her husband grin, and even Alvin relaxed a little. It had been a long time since they heard her laughter. It was a welcome sound.

Walter watched the family make their way out of the pumpkin patch with Alvin's choice. They looked happier than he'd ever seen them.

His name was called. Walter turned to see Craig Danvers, his partner Adam, and Zane and Henry Dobbins loading a bunch of the surplus pumpkins into the back of Zane's pickup, under the supervision of Deb Blascoe who planned to put the vegetables to use at her diner. It was she who'd called him.

"C'mon over here!" The older woman beckoned with a finger tipped by a long, red-lacquered nail. "Make yerself useful. Help these strappin' fellas load up the truck."

"Yeah! C'mon, Walt," Craig added over his shoulder, one basketball sized pumpkin tucked under each arm. The others took up the call, teasing and cajoling the redhead to help out. They sounded like kids at a playground encouraging a shy newcomer to join in the fun. Walter felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth despite himself. He headed towards them, eliciting a cheer that made several bystanders laugh.

Inside the house, Chloe retrieved the changing supplies from the main floor bathroom, spread a blanket on the living room floor, and lay her daughter on it. Music emanated from the kitchen; Elsie evidently forgot to turn the radio off. Chloe hummed along as she changed the baby's diaper. Danny smiled up at her. She liked the sound of her mother's voice when she hummed or sang. Chloe grinned and began to sing aloud. _"Desmond takes a trolley to the jewelry store. Buys a twenty carat golden ring. Takes it back to Molly waiting at the door. And as he gives it to her she begins to sing. Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, brah! Lala how the life goes on."_

She tickled her daughter's belly on the "Lala." Danny giggled.

(Miles away at that exact moment, an expectant couple drove towards the hospital to usher their son into the world.)

The new diaper was fastened, the stretchy trousers pulled back into place. Chloe put everything away and picked her daughter up. The music abruptly ended and the droning voice of a news announcer took over. Chloe went into the kitchen to switch the radio off. As she drew near, the words resolved into coherence. She froze.

_"We repeat, there as been another attack from the Banshee. Only minutes ago the sonic weapon was triggered in an outdoor shopping center. It is estimated that as many as seventy to eighty people lost their lives, with an additional one hundred to one hundred fifty injured. No suspects have been apprehended…"_

Chloe turned off the radio with a trembling hand. The distant sounds of laughter reached her from the pumpkin patch. She knew she wouldn't be able to bring herself to ruin everyone's day with this news. They would find out about it soon enough. The difficult thing would be keeping it from Walter; one look at her face and he'd know something had upset her, and she couldn't lie to him. So she took a few minutes to get a hold of herself, grabbing a juice out of the fridge for Danny as a handy excuse. Danny was puzzled by her mother's sudden change of mood, but drank the juice without hesitation. When she was finished, Chloe felt calm enough to go back outside.

Walter hoisted another pumpkin into the truck bed. The pickup's shocks groaned in protest.

"Put your backs into it, boys," Deb commanded (there was no other way to describe it), "Those pumpkin pies aren't gonna bake themselves."

"Better be some damn good pies," Adam grumbled, stretching his aching back.

Walter noticed his family's approached and paused. A slight frown creased the space between his eyes as he looked at his wife's expression. "What's wrong?"

Chloe stifled a grimace. "Nothing that can't wait."

"You sure?" She must have looked more upset than she thought.

"Yeah. It can wait." Chloe tried to keep her tone light.

"Hey, Walt," Craig shouted from the truck, "Don't make us break out the whip, buddy."

Chloe smirked. Walter cocked an eyebrow and turned back to the task at hand. Chloe watched him help his friends with their chore, watched the last of the families choose their future jack-o-lanterns, and Elsie engaged in conversation with Deb Blascoe. The simple joy of the day remained unspoiled for them. Chloe tried to push what she'd learned aside so she could join in. She wasn't very successful.


	11. The Bitter and the Sweet

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

* * *

BANSHEE

My legs hurt. They always hurt. Doctors said it's all in my mind, as if that makes the pain any less real. It's all just neural impulses. Whether or not the limbs exist are of no consequence. All pain is of the mind.

I stood amidst the carnage and wondered if today I might be confronted, captured. But no. The survivors milled around, bleeding from the ears and nose, screaming in horror at what their eyes saw and at the realization that they could no longer hear their own voices. Some would die later from unseen injuries deep inside their bodies. The Voice was devastating in its effect. My stomach churned.

I stumbled away as the first vehicles arrived with lights flashing, their sirens unheard by many, including myself. The helmet which protected the delicate mechanisms of my ears also rendered them useless, as deaf as the sorry individuals I left in my wake, though for me this condition would end once the helmet was removed. No one followed me. No one even suspected. They were too busy gaping at the dead and damaged while the authorities strove to bring some order to the chaos. I returned to the safety of my hideaway without incident.

My hideaway was a monastic room in what from outside appeared to be just another abandoned warehouse in a city filled with abandoned, neglected buildings. There was a simple cot to sleep in, a crate filled with canned goods and a box of plastic spoons to eat with, a long folding table, and my chair. The narrow window was covered in tarpaper so that no light might escape the confines of the room. I switched on the lights, secured the door behind me, and shuffled over to the table to begin my ritual of undressing.

Each item was removed with care. My hat and coat first, tossed aside. They were of no importance. Camouflage only, easily replaced. Next came the helmet that encased my entire head, leaving nothing exposed. My hair was plastered to my brow and the air felt cool against my sweaty face. I set the helmet onto the table with care. Next my gauntlets, lain beside the helmet, first the left, then the right. Then the harness from which the Voice resonated outward, and its power source, worn on a heavy belt against the small of my back. The power source must be replaced after each use; twenty-four hours to charge, less than twenty seconds to deplete. Beneath the harness was the rest of my protective armor, which I removed once component at a time and placed on the table in a neat row. That done, I went to sit in the room's single chair so that I could attend to my legs. My hands trembled slightly as I undid the buckles of the armored coverings. I set those aside, then unfastened the straps holding the legs in place. They slid off with ease. The fleshy stumps, both ending evenly just above the knee, were red from the hours of encasement and from bearing my weight. I massaged them with tenderness and recalled again the day my flesh-and-blood limbs were lost to me. It was the day my savior destroyed much of the city, and numerous other cities around the world. Before that momentous day, I was as a walking corpse, going through the motions of day to day life; working, eating, sleeping. Counting the days to extinction.

Then came the night when I woke to an explosion of blinding blue-white and saw a wall of light coming towards me. I lay in my bed, too terrified to move, watching the light draw near, dissolving all it touched. The walls of my lonely apartment, my furniture, the end of the bed, and then…

I fully expected to die like millions of others. I was ready for it. Instead, the light vanished as suddenly as it came. Only then did I experience the agony that haunted me ever since, the phantom pains from legs which no longer existed.

For so many months I felt nothing but despair. I had no understanding. Why did I live? Why was I left a cripple? I pored over every news article, watched every program in which the attack was the subject. My obsession ruled my life. People from work who once considered themselves my friends stopped visiting. I barely noticed. My landlord threatened eviction for nonpayment. I moved out that very night and into a seedy flophouse that stank of urine and housed more roaches and rats than tenants. That night, while listening to the amorous activities taking place in the neighboring room, I finally understood. I got out of the bed, crawled across the dingy floor to where my suitcases lay, and rummaged through their haphazardly packed contents until I found what I was looking for: a file from work which I'd taken home to work on, forgotten in the wake of the attack. I spent the rest of that night poring over the plans, the hastily jotted notes, making corrections and modifications where necessary. The next morning I sold everything I had, save my prosthetic legs, traded in my pristine new wheelchair for cash and an older model. Then I found my hideaway and set about purchasing the necessary components to create the device that became the Voice. Those I could not find in common electronics stores I bought off the black market. It took the better part of a year of frenetic work—rarely sleeping, hardly eating—to create the Voice; months to perfect it and assemble the protective gear I would wear. And then came the night of my field test. It was a brutal, surreal, heady moment. A magnificent success. As were the daylight trials.

The media dubbed me the Banshee, the ghost whose unearthly cry heralded death. They thought I was merely out for some as yet unknown personal gain, like the masked vigilantes which roamed the city. They had no true understanding of my motives; could not comprehend that these "attacks" of mine were merely the forerunners to my masterstroke. The culmination of my work.

_Pat._ A crimson drop landed on my wrist. I brought my hand to my face, felt the tacky wetness that oozed from my nose. My hands shook, but not from fear. I had never felt calmer. My skin was mottled with large bruises, my eyes heavily bloodshot. The armor did not protect me entirely. It simply delayed the inevitable. The more I used the Voice, the worse my condition grew. It didn't matter. I only needed to be able to use it once more. After that…

* * *

DANIELLE

She stared up at the mobile, plush yellow stars that dangled on strings. They swayed in the faint breeze coming from the heat duct. There was light from the window. She sat up, grabbed the bars of her crib, used them to steady herself as she got to her feet. The mattress squashed under her feet, a treacherous base on which to stand, but she held on to the bars and didn't fall. Her diaper felt clammy against her skin, but she didn't cry. A grownup would come through the door soon enough to change her.

Maybe it would be Auntie, with her dark freckles across her cheeks and short, bouncy gray curls. Auntie would call her munchkin or Danny-girl and talk to her through her happy grin while she changed her. Danny wouldn't understand most of what she heard, but that was alright. She liked her auntie's voice just the same.

Or maybe her Momma would come through the door, with her soft voice and softer hands that nimbly did their work. Momma would sing one of her songs and, when she finished, would tickle Danny's belly and the two of them would giggle. A ritual for them, though Danny'd never heard the word "ritual" and wouldn't know its meaning if she did.

Or maybe it would be Daddy, who didn't sing and hardly spoke, yet she felt his love the strongest.

It was Auntie.

"Mornin', munchkin!"

"Tee!" She couldn't say her Auntie's name right. Her mouth didn't want to cooperate, like her legs, which longed to carry her. But the old woman understood just the same.

"That's right. Your auntie's here to usher in the new day. C'mon, sweetie. Oof!" She lifted the grinning child from the crib. "I swear you put on another pound every night," she laughed, carrying Danny to the changing table. "Now, let's get you smellin' like a rose."

Quick and efficient, that was Auntie's way. Soon Danny was clean and dry, clad in a new outfit: bright yellow shirt and little blue bib overalls with a duck on the front. Auntie carried her downstairs where the other grownups waited. Danny couldn't count the days, but she knew from the bright anticipation in her Auntie and Momma, and the resignation in Daddy's eyes, that it was Sunday. Danny liked Sundays. They were the days when they all went to the place full of people, grownups and big-kids and even a few little ones like her, though she didn't care one way or the other about those. The grownups would crowd around and make funny faces, play with her and talk to her. She thrived under such attention.

Maybe today she would walk.

Breakfast was set out. She squirmed impatiently in her highchair, but opened her mouth obediently each time the spoon came towards her. The faster she ate, the faster they could go. Momma wiped the smeared breakfast off her face, helped her into her multicolored jacket (the air was getting colder outside), and they all went out to the car. Danny sat in the back with Auntie, like always, strapped safely into her seat. She craned her neck to peer through the window, but was still too short to see more than the tops of the trees and taller buildings they passed. Then they stopped and everyone got out. The door opened beside her and her Daddy leaned in to undo the straps. His ice-blue eyes met hers. She smiled, he smiled back. Even when Daddy smiled, there was a sadness in his eyes. Danny never wondered why; she was still too young to think about the why of things. The world simply was. Daddy was sad, even while he was happy. There was no why.

He lifted her out and carried her towards the simple brick building. People leaned against the wall outside, their heads wreathed in smoke, cigarettes with glowing embers at their tips sticking out of their mouths or held between two fingers. They called out their greetings to Momma and Daddy and Auntie, and they called back (except for Daddy, who just nodded). More than a few included Danny in their hellos, which thrilled her to no end. She waved at these people, earning her many smiles and chuckles, and a few waves in return. All her friends were there; Uncle Craig and Uncle Adam, both of which she called "Unka"; the three old ladies who fussed and cooed over her; Alvin ("Avvie!"), the nice big-kid who played with her long after the other big-kids got bored. He didn't even lose his patience when she threw sand at him while they were in the sandbox together.

Perched in her Daddy's arms, she stared at all the people surrounding her, drifting together in groups, moving from place to place. Walking, walking, everyone walking. Danny wanted to walk, too. Her legs were strong. She kicked them and felt her whole body jerk. She squirmed and uttered a faint whine of impatience. Daddy took her outside, to the playground with its wide-open spaces. He set her on the paved area surrounding the door and let her hold one slender, freckled finger to steady herself. But Danny didn't want any help. She wanted to walk like the big-kids and the grownups. She let go of his finger, tried to move her feet like all the other times before, but without the security of someone to hold onto, she got scared, and her legs faltered. She plopped down onto the concrete, the short distance plus the added padding of her diaper assuring nothing worse than a jolt. She blinked in surprise, glanced up at her Daddy who made no move to pick her up just yet. With a frown of determination, Danny gathered herself and rose unsteadily to her feet. Her chubby arms waved to keep her balance. She tried to raise her left foot in an attempt at her first unaided step, but again the fear zapped through her like static shock, and she dropped onto her bottom. She screwed her face into the puckered expression of an infant about to let loose an ear-splitting wail. But then a movement distracted her from her misery; Daddy knelt down beside her. He leaned forward, onto his hands and knees. Leaned towards her until their foreheads gently bumped. Danny blinked, then giggled, her near-tantrum forgotten. She watched her Daddy turn and crawl away, glancing over his shoulder at her. _Silly Daddy,_ she would have said, had she the words, _That's not how grownups move_.

She got on all fours and followed him. Daddy picked up the pace, just a little, and she hurried to catch up to him. They crawled in a broad circle, neither taking notice of the big-kids who watched and laughed, nor the grown-ups who stood in the doorway shaking their heads and chuckling. Danny crowed in triumph; she was almost close enough to touch the soles of his shoes. Her Daddy abruptly pivoted and rose up on his knees, palms held out before him. Danny reared up to put her own hands against his. She had to stand to reach them, and wobbled on her inexperienced legs. Their eyes met again and she felt the strength of his love pour into her. He scooted back on his knees, out of reach, his palms still held up in front of him. Danny reached, but he was too far. She was laughing too hard to be frustrated. She reached, and her legs began to move. One wobbly step, another, and a third. Then she tumbled forward and was caught up in her Daddy's arms. He lifted her high above his head, smiling proudly. Danny laughed. And because there was no _why_, she did not wonder at the tears she saw in his eyes. Nor did she feel a strand of the invisible cord which connected parent to child begin to unravel, bringing it ever closer to its inevitable severing.

* * *

WALTER

But Walter did.

* * *

CHLOE

And so did Chloe, standing amidst the small audience that crowded the doorway, watching her husband and daughter celebrate Danny's first independent steps. She laughed at their startled expressions on hearing the spontaneous applause, and tried to ignore the sting in her eyes.

_The bitter and the sweet_, a phrase she once heard her first husband utter. Byron's definition of life. It suited this moment perfectly. Witnessing her child's development, both bitter and sweet.


	12. Mothers and Children

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

* * *

NEW YORK

She stared down at her newborn son while he nursed. The sun had yet to rise. The only light came from the dim nightlight plugged into the socket beside the door. She sat on the cushioned seat of the rocking chair and let it sway her, back and forth. She didn't say a word. Didn't try to sing a lullaby or even hum. She gazed down on her newborn son and wondered how something could be both ugly and beautiful. Laurie never saw much appeal in babies, especially newborns with their pruny skin and oddly shriveled features, like little old men. Yet she couldn't keep her eyes off of this particular "little old man." Every grimace and twitch fascinated her. The tiny fingers of his tiny hands curled into fists that punched the air at random. The squinting eyes. That weird patch of hair at the back of his head that resembled a bald man's fringe.

And so demanding! Laurie's days were measured out in changings and feedings, interspersed with brief catnaps and hastily grabbed meals. Her hair was a tangled mess and she had yet to wear anything beyond rumpled pajamas. She'd never felt more exhausted in her life. She'd also never felt more needed.

Little Walter released her nipple with a contented sound. Laurie buttoned her top closed, then dutifully brought the baby to her shoulder to burp him. Once that was over with, she returned him to his crib. The baby snuggled into the warm cocoon of his blanket and almost instantly fell asleep. Laurie checked the baby monitor to make sure it was switched on, then quietly exited the room, shutting the door behind her.

The house was eerily silent. Laurie padded down the hall to the bedroom she shared with Dan, slipped beneath covers that had lost the heat absorbed from her body. Dan was absent from the other side of the bed. He was out patrolling. Out searching for clues on the Banshee. Thinking about this clouded Laurie's mood. Not because he was out there, but because he was out there without her. She missed the partnership they shared as Nite Owl and Silk Spectre, the camaraderie and the way they watched each others' backs. Now her husband was out there alone, chasing after a homicidal maniac who could kill without lifting a finger. He could be hurt or…or worse, and she wouldn't even know.

Laurie wiped her face against her pillow, leaving damp streaks on the pillowcase. Damn hormonal changes. She hated when she got all weepy.

Her ears picked up the muted tread of soles on carpet. Laurie forced her body to relax as the door swung open and the familiar silhouette of her husband stepped through. Daniel closed the door, tiptoed to his side of the bed, and sat. The mattress sagged under his not-inconsiderable weight. Laurie listened to the sounds of him undressing, then felt the mattress lurch gently beneath her as he stretched out, pulling the covers over himself. His arm encircled her waist. "Hey."

"Hey," she responded, wondering how he always seemed to know when she was awake.

"How's our boy doing?"

She smiled in the darkness. "He's fine." Laurie curled against the comforting bulk of her husband, grateful to have him safely home.

When morning came, she found herself alone once again. Laurie sighed at the empty space beside her, then hauled herself out of bed with a grunt and stumbled to the bathroom. She took care of all her necessities, took a quick shower, and threw on a baggy sweatsuit. That was when she noticed that the baby monitor had been switched off. Laurie frowned and went to the baby's room, found the crib empty. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

The aroma reached her before she even made it down the stairs. Dan was making French toast. How a man who used to eat most of his meals from the microwave learned to make such heavenly French toast, Laurie could not begin to guess. She viewed it as one of life's great mysteries.

She found her family in the kitchen, Daniel busy at the stove, little Walter lying in his baby carrier atop the dining table. The tip of the baby's tongue poked out of his rounded lips. Even sated all he thought about was nursing. Laurie bent down to place a light kiss on his tiny brow.

Dan looked over his shoulder. "Hey. Almost done here."

"Take your time." Laurie took a seat near the carrier. The baby stared, face expressionless save for his eternally working mouth. Laurie prodded one tiny fist until her son's hand clamped down on her finger. It amazed her how strong his grip was, considering he couldn't even support his own head yet.

The phone rang, startling everyone.

"I'll get it." Laurie rose from her seat to retrieve the cordless phone from the living room. She punched the answer button. "Hello?"

_"Laurie!"_ The unnecessarily enthusiastic blare of Sally Jupiter's voice stabbed into her ear. Laurie winced. "Hi, Mom." She should not have been surprised. Since her grandson was born, Sally had phoned them each day to check on him, often several times a day. It was enough to make Laurie relieved of their geographical distance, otherwise her mother doubtless would have been "dropping by" at all hours.

_"How's my grandbaby?"_

Laurie made her way back to the kitchen, resumed her seat. "Same as yesterday. Babies grow fast, but not _that_ fast."

_"Oh, cut your mother some slack! I never thought I'd live long enough to be a grandma."_

Laurie wondered if there was some veiled criticism in that statement, or if she was just being paranoid.

"Tell Sally hi for me," Dan called over his shoulder.

"Dan says hi." Laurie frowned. "You got the TV on or something? I keep hearing voices in the background."

_"That's just the couple across the aisle. They've been chatting away since we took off."_

Laurie stiffened. "'Took off'? Where are you?"

_"On a plane,"_ Sally answered, offhand, _"They've got these new phones on the backs of the seats. Isn't that nifty? Of course, they charge you through the nose to use them—"_

"You're on a _plane?_" Laurie exclaimed, startling her husband and causing her son to whine, "You're coming here? Why didn't you tell me?"

_"Relax, cupcake. I promise not to be an imposition. I'll even help out around the house."_

Oh god. "No! I mean, we're not ready for any house guests right now."

The smugness in her mother's voice was unmistakable. _"Well, I'm afraid I don't have any pull with the captain to turn this plane around. Don't fret, honey. You'll hardly know I'm there."_

Laurie and Dan shared troubled looks.

* * *

To say the staff at the retirement home was shocked by Sally Jupiter's sudden announcement that she was going to visit some old friends in New York was a bit of an understatement. Some days it was all anyone could do to convince the old woman to leave her bed. Nevertheless, Sally loaded a steamer trunk and whisked herself off to the airport in record time, leaving everyone else reeling from her abrupt departure.

Hours later, she burst through the Dreibergs' front door warbling, "Where's my grandbaby?" She swept through the living room, a vision in poodle-permed hair and a well-preserved mink coat, and scooped the newborn infant from his mother's arms. "There he is! Oh, you sweet little dear! You precious little burden, you!"

Wally goggled at this strange, cooing monstrosity with the overly reddened lips and sagging jowls. He was too astonished to even act fussy.

"Mother," Laurie said in that weary, put-upon voice that so irked Sally, "Stop that. You'll traumatize him."

"Oh, nonsense, Laurie! Babies are the most resilient creatures on earth." She passed the infant back to her daughter with obvious reluctance. Meanwhile, Dan risked a hernia as he struggled with the trunk. "Just put that anywhere, dear. Now," Sally shed her mink coat and draped it over the back of a chair, then took her daughter's elbow, "why don't you give me the grand tour?"

While Dan continued his battle with the luggage, Laurie showed her mother around their home with the same sense of obligation one displayed towards a visit to the dentist. Sally oohed and tutted, squinted and touched, but all the while she peeped at her daughter from the corner of her eye.

They rounded off the impromptu tour back in the living room. The baby made his all-too-familiar hungry sounds and Laurie took a seat on the couch and began to nurse him, modestly shielded beneath a small blanket. Sally seated herself beside them and shook her head. "I still can't believe you let Dan name your son after that lunatic."

"They were friends, Mother," Laurie retorted absently. It bothered her to be feeding her son in front of her mother, but Sally showed no discomfort. The old woman had seen far more outrageous things in her time. Hell, half the time she was the _cause._ Still, nursing the baby in front of company made Laurie self-conscious. She hated that feeling. It was the same emotion that haunted her in her teens when she began her superhero career in that ridiculous costume her mother designed for her. What was it with women masked adventurers and those skimpy, impractical outfits anyway?

Sally cleared her throat, interrupting her daughter's reverie. "So, how're you holding up, kiddo?"

Frown lines creased the space between the younger woman's eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know. Getting up in the wee hours, changing diapers, feeding, that sort of thing."

"Well, I'm used to getting up at weird times."

"Still, having kids can be pretty demanding."

Laurie snorted. "Well, good thing you had plenty of hired help to dump me off on." She regretted her snide remark the instant it was out of her mouth. She really wanted to move past the bitterness that had fallen between them, but old habits…

Sally pretended to be unaffected by the remark. "There's no shame in getting a little help, sweetheart," she replied, hoping it didn't sound defensive. She'd done the best she could for her small, admittedly dysfunctional family.

Laurie buttoned her top closed, set the blanket aside, and moved little Walter to her shoulder to burp him. "I won't be needing any help."

"Perhaps not now, but when you go back out on patrol—"

"I'm not going back. I've decided to quit."

Sally found herself at a loss for words, a remarkable condition for her. Laurie had brought up the subject before, but— "You were _serious _about that? We both know how well you handled retirement the last time."

"Last time it was me and Jon. Now I have someone to take care of, someone who needs me." She settled the baby into a more comfortable position against her shoulder. Wally uttered a faint squeak that Sally recalled her daughter made as a newborn when she was sleepy.

"Well," Sally licked her lips, "if that's what you think is best."

"It is."

"But," she placed a hand on her daughter's knee, "humor your mother and keep in mind that I thought retiring was best for us as well. In hindsight, I think it was a mistake. But then, there really weren't that many working mothers in my day." Save extremely poor and/or single women. "It's different now."

Laurie finally looked at her. "I know you're just trying to help, Mom. But really, we're okay. This is the best thing for Wally. I know it." At the back of her mind, she winced. God, she just called her son Wally! If Dan got wind of it, she'd never live it down.

Sally nodded. She knew there was no point in arguing. Laurie had inherited her contrariness; the harder she was pushed, the more she dug in her heels and held her ground.

Laurie lowered her son from her shoulder, then tentatively held the half-slumbering infant out towards the older woman. "Wanna hold him again?"

Sally grinned. "Do you really have to ask?" She took the baby in her arms, gazed down at his round, soft features. "Such a darling. He looks like you and Dan both."

Laurie's smile brought out the tired lines around her eyes. "Better hope he inherits Dan's temperament, otherwise we're liable to drive each other crazy."

The two women looked at each other and shared a wry chuckle.

* * *

JUBILATION

Walter woke to a horrible sound; Danny was crying. A loud, long wail that sent an icy finger into his heart. He jumped out of bed before Chloe even threw the covers back and dashed across the hall to the baby's room. He found her standing in her crib, mouth gaping, tears and snot streaming down her round face. He quickly lifted her out and felt her little arms encircle his neck. Her cries were like a shrill klaxon in his ear. He didn't know what was wrong and the helplessness he felt from his ignorance nearly brought tears to his own eyes.

Chloe entered the room and hurried to them. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Walter croaked, his answer barely audible over their child's distress.

Chloe gently pried the baby away from her father. "Shh-shh. It's okay, sweetie. Momma and Daddy are here." She gave Danielle a quick once-over, checking for signs of injury or illness, but the girl was fine and her cries were already beginning to subside. Chloe dared to let some of her tension ease. "I think she's okay."

"Bet it was a nightmare," Elsie stated from the doorway, startling the couple.

Danny sniffed and snuggled into her mother's arms.

"See? She's calming down."

Chloe couldn't hide her relief. She smiled at her husband, who still looked fretful.

"You sure?" He leaned in to gaze at the infant's tear-streaked face. Watery blue eyes met his own. Danny had her thumb in her mouth. What could such an innocent possibly dream about that would make her wake up screaming? He placed a gentle hand to the back of her head, feeling the heat radiating from her. She'd almost driven herself to a fever with her hysterics.

Elsie shrugged. "Happens t' everyone, Walt. You didn't think you had the corner market on bad dreams, didya?" A little of her signature mischief shined through in her smile. But mostly there was relief, like Chloe. For them nightmares were ephemeral things that faded in the daylight. But for Walter they were something more substantial dredged up from his deeply troubled memories.

He took his daughter into his arms. Chloe relinquished her without a qualm. Walter hugged the sniffling infant and swayed back and forth, one hand rubbing against her back in slow circles. Elsie came into the room, reached out to gently stroke her grandniece's downy hair.

_"Hush little baby, don't say a word. Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird won't sing, Momma's gonna buy you a diamond ring…"_

Chloe smiled at her aunt's lullaby. After a moment, her voice joined in. _"…And if that diamond ring turns brass, Momma's gonna buy you a looking glass…"_

Walter felt a tightness in his throat that had nothing to do with worry. He turned his head away, eyes blinking. As a child, no one had ever comforted him when he woke in the night. He'd suffered from recurring nightmares even then. Once, when he was perhaps three or four years old, Walter had a dream so horrific he woke up screaming for his mother. Even at so young an age, he'd known better, but Walter wasn't thinking rationally at the time; he was just a little boy in desperate need for comfort. Sylvia Kovacs had stormed into his room in a rage at being awakened at such an ungodly hour. She'd screamed even louder than Walter and slapped him so hard his ears rang. She just kept hitting him, screeching, _"Wake me up, you little bastard? Shut the hell up!"_ He finally managed to silence himself by biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. He never cried for his mother again, just smothered his screams into his pillow and suffered through his fears.

Walter felt a yawning emptiness inside himself. He wanted to hold his daughter tighter, but didn't want to risk upsetting her again. Already he felt her tiny body relaxing against him as the women's song soothed away her night terrors. Soon, her deep breaths signaled that she'd fallen back asleep. With infinite care, Walter lay her in her crib and pulled the covers over her. Danny curled into a fetal position, thumb still firmly in her mouth. The adults made as quiet an exit as possible.

"Well," Elsie sighed, "That's it for my beauty rest. Guess I'll head downstairs and make some tea. Care t' join me?"

Chloe shook her head. A yawn stretched her mouth into an O. "No thanks," she managed to say, "I'm goin' back to bed."

"Me too," Walter murmured, surprising himself as much as them. Once he was awake, no matter how late or early the hour of the night, or how tired he was, he was rarely able to get back to sleep. But Walter didn't want to sit up in the kitchen this time; he wanted to be with Chloe.

Sensing this, she took his hand and, wishing Elsie a good night (what was left of it), the two of them returned to their bedroom. The room was dark, but they negotiated the short distance to the bed without mishap. Chloe lay down with a weary sigh. Walter lay beside her. After a moment in which the tension failed to leave his body, he rolled over and put his arms around Chloe's waist, rested his head against her stomach. Chloe smiled and stroked his short hair, slowly.

"Know what I do when I have a bad dream?" she asked, a hair above a whisper, "I think about something good. Something that makes me feel happy and safe, so I'll dream of that when I go back to sleep."

"Does it work?" Walter murmured.

"Mostly." Stroke…stroke…slender fingers through his graying red hair. Walter felt his eyelids grow heavy and his muscles slowly relax.

"Can't go back to sleep," he whispered.

"That's because you let yourself get restless. You should try just letting go."

That tightness in his throat again. "Don't know how."

"You're doing it now, baby." He could hear the smile in her quiet tone. _"Hush little baby, don't say a word…"_

Walter smiled. "Not a baby."

"You're my baby. _Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird…_"

His eyes drifted shut. He gave himself over to his wife's sweet voice, her gentle hand, and thought of this life he had with his family. He slept, and his dreams were not of his dark past and troubled childhood with a loveless mother, but filled with images of Chloe, Elsie, and Danielle. And in his sleep, he smiled.


	13. Masks and Memories

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

* * *

JUBILATION

Alvin kicked his dangling legs, the toes of his sneakers bumping against the wooden panels of the diner's counter. Fallon, seated on a neighboring stool, glanced at his son. It was enough to make the boy lessen the swing of his legs so that his feet did not bump anything. After several sessions with a family therapist, things between father and son were gradually improving. At least now they could spend time together without Olivia as a mediator without feeling as if they walked on eggshells.

_Crack. Sizzle._ Eggs like white, blobby eyes dropped onto the griddle beside two sputtering steaks. The heady odors of fry oil and meat permeated the diner, making the waiting customers unconsciously lick their lips.

It was a spontaneous thing, coming to Deb Blascoe's establishment for lunch. Fallon had picked Alvin up after kindergarten, and as they drove down Jubilation's main thoroughfare, he'd suddenly asked his son, "Wanna get somethin' at Deb's?"

Alvin had looked at his father warily. But he _was_ hungry. "'Kay."

"Hey, boys," Deb greeted them, wiping the counter down with a dishrag. "Bring your keisters on over here an' park 'em."

They did so. Fallon ordered a Coke for himself and a chocolate malt for Alvin while they waited on their meals. Alvin slurped noisily at his beverage, the malt so thick the straw collapsed on itself. Fallon, watching from the corner of his eye, smiled faintly.

Behind the counter, bolted to a ledge overhead, an old TV set displayed the grainy image of a popular talk show. The day's topic: The second anniversary of the tragedy which befell the world on November 2nd and differing perspectives of that day. Among the show's guests was a prominent Televangelist with unnaturally white teeth and styled hair that gleamed as if coated with shellac. Beside him sat the co-founder of the organization All Souls Survivors, an average looking woman dressed in mourning-black. Lastly, there was a woman clad in a modest brown sweater and ankle-length green skirt. There seemed little remarkable about her, save a strange mark on her forehead. Fallon squinted at the screen. As if to accommodate him, the studio camera drew in for a closeup of the woman, bringing the mark into better focus. It was a tattoo, probably done by an amateur using India ink. It resembled the textbook image of a planet orbiting a sun; a blue dot in the center, surrounded by a ring which bisected a second, smaller dot directly above the larger one. It was too familiar for Fallon not to recognize it. It was a hydrogen atom. Dr. Manhattan's symbol.

The talk show hostess introduced the woman as Ruth Samson, a.k.a. Sister Blue, high priestess of the Temple of the Azure Way, a strange new sect that surfaced shortly after the disaster. Followers of the Temple's doctrine believed that Dr. Manhattan was the embodiment of the Second Coming of Christ, and when humanity proved itself unworthy, this living deity lashed out in justifiable anger and then turned his back on them. The Temple sought to bring about his return so that he might rescue the faithful from this obviously doomed world.

Fallon shook his head. The things people deluded themselves into believing to avoid confronting despair…

Alvin paid no attention to the TV and its boring program. His eyes wandered amongst the Halloween decorations scattered throughout the diner. Paper bats and ghosts dangled from the ceiling, cardboard cutouts of jack-o-lanterns and black cats were pasted to the walls, garlands of black and orange crepe paper twisted around the windows' outer edges. A bowl of candy corn sat on the counter top. Alvin surreptitiously took a few and popped them into his mouth. He chewed them thoughtfully, wondering what kind of costume Mama was working on. Every year Olivia surprised him with a homemade Halloween costume. _Except last year,_ was Alvin's sober thought. She was still too hurt last year to make anything. But she was better now, and she was getting back into her old routines. This was good. After the turbulence of the last couple of years, the family could do with some normality in their lives. Mama would make his costume, then Daddy would take him trick-or-treating. Alvin looked at his father, uncertain of his feelings.

Alvin had vivid memories of himself curled up against his father while they lay on his bed, his father reading to him from his collection of Dr. Seuss books. Fallon would make funny voices and contort his face for the different characters, and Alvin would laugh. It was not so long ago, yet how much it all had changed. Alvin missed having such trust in his daddy.

Their food was set before them, Alvin's portion noticeably smaller than his father's. Fallon reached over with his fork and serrated knife and carved Alvin's meat into bite-sized pieces. Fallon thought nothing of it, nor did Alvin. If they had, awkwardness would have insinuated itself between them, making for an uncomfortable meal. Instead, they turned to their food and ate in silent enjoyment, nearly as comfortable in each other's presence as they used to be.

On the television, Sister Blue smiled serenely while the Televangelist made numerous not-so-subtle remarks about the worship of false idols.

At home, Olivia finished her son's Halloween costume. She and Fallon had talked about it, wondering what Alvin wanted to be. Really, they already knew, but neither was comfortable bringing it up. Olivia finally broke the silence and suggested what was on both their minds. To her surprise, Fallon needed no persuasion, though he obviously wasn't thrilled. She couldn't blame him. But Halloween was a holiday for kids' desires, not their parents'. So while her husband and son were out, Olivia worked on fashioning her child's guise.

The door opened. Fallon entered, followed closely by little Alvin. Olivia smiled at them both, relieved to see them none the worse for their time together. "Hey. You're just in time." She beckoned to her son. "C'mere, Alvie. Look what you're gonna be this year."

Alvin stared at the garments arranged on the coffee table and gasped. He looked at his mother, his father. The adults offered encouraging smiles, tinged with a hint of worry. Alvin's mouth stretched into an elated grin. He ran to his mother, careful not to slam into the delicate woman as he used to do before…well, _before_, and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Thank you, Mama."

Olivia kissed the top of his head. "You're welcome, sweetheart."

Fallon put on a brave face. "Better put it on if you wanna go trick-or-treating."

"Yeah!" The boy swept up the clothes and hurried to his room to change.

Olivia turned to her husband. "Everything go okay?"

Fallon nodded. "Yeah," he sighed, "Slowly but surely."

"Right." She reached out to take his hand. "Don't fret tonight. Just have fun with him, like you used to."

From the look on his face, Fallon doubted things between him and his son would ever be like they used to.

* * *

His daughter was a pumpkin.

Danny sat placidly on the couch while her mother fitted the costume onto her. Her torso was encased in a bulbous, padded orange ball with a jaunty smiley face stitched onto the front. The sleeves and leggings were green, and the hat secured to her head with a bit of string tied under her chin resembled the circular cap of a jack-o-lantern, complete with stem.

Chloe and Elsie grinned and cooed over the toddler, Elsie with her camera to immortalize this moment. Danielle had no idea what was going on, but didn't mind because such was the normal state of one so young. Plus, she was getting lots of attention.

"You are just too cute!" Elsie exclaimed, ogling the giggling child through the viewfinder. _Click_, went the camera.

Chloe looked towards her husband. "Doesn't she look adorable?"

Walter shrugged. The quality of his usual silence held a somber edge. Halloween marked the eve of the bombings which Rorschach failed to prevent. The year before, he'd still been caught up in caring for the baby and hadn't spared much thought for anything else. But now Danielle was older and a little less dependent, which meant Walter no longer had the distraction she'd once afforded him. The less helpless Danny was, the more time Walter had to brood.

"Say 'Trick or treat,' Danny," Elsie urged, oblivious of everything save her grandniece.

Danny blinked. "Teet?"

"Triiick…orrr…treeeat," the old woman enunciated each word, stretching them out like taffy. Chloe stifled a laugh.

Danny's face scrunched in her concentrating expression. "Twick…ah…teet."

"Close enough." Elsie snapped off another picture.

"C'mon, Els," Chloe admonished, "Save some film for when we take her out."

"You just let me worry about how much film I have," her aunt retorted.

Walter saw little point in taking Danielle out trick-or-treating. She was too young to eat much candy, and she wouldn't remember all this when she got older anyway. But the women were adamant. They seemed to think every holiday was a rite of passage for the child now that she was old enough to do more than stare and fall sleep. Her comprehension did not seem to matter.

Needless to say, Walter's mother never took him trick-or-treating. Later, as Rorschach, he came to associate Halloween with rising acts of vandalism: knocked over tombstones, cars set aflame, houses egged, and windows broken. And the perpetrators seemed to get younger each year.

Now all he could think about was Antarctica and fifteen million ghosts. He didn't know how Chloe could push it all out of her mind. She was there for the aftermath. She saw the devastation, the bodies littering the streets. She saw him, grieving to the point of suicide. How could she not think of all that now?

Chloe stood, hefting Danny in her arms, and walked over to her somber husband. She handed him their daughter with a smile. "You'll enjoy it. Trust me."

Walter mustered a faint smile. "I'll try."

"Oh, shoot!" Elsie exclaimed as she looked at her watch, "I gotta get ready." She passed the camera to Chloe, hurried for the stairs. Elsie would remain home to welcome trick-or-treaters with homemade popcorn balls and cookies shaped like witches riding broomsticks. Though home was situated on the outskirts of town, many families drove out in their cars.

Chloe picked up her keys and headed for the front door, followed by Walter with their child.

Walter looked her over. "No costume?"

She threw him a coy look over her shoulder. "Sure. I'm dressed as a sane person."

This time his smile was genuine. It was an old joke between them, one that started when Chloe left New York to care for her ailing aunt.

_"I'll be back in time for Halloween,"_ she'd promised then, her smile hopeful, _"We can make a day of it. Dress up like sane people."_

A smile had tugged at the corners of Walter's mouth. _"How do sane people dress?"_

_"Damned if I know."_

Chloe shouted farewell to her aunt. "See you later, Els!"

"Have fun!" came the older woman's muffled reply. The family exited the house.

The evening held the sharp bite of autumn's chill, making the adults grateful for their jackets. Danny's costume was so well insulated she hardly noticed the cold. They went to the car where Walter strapped her into her seat, then got into the front passenger seat. Chloe started the electric engine and pulled out of the driveway.

The town looked like it was invaded by hobgoblins. Children of all ages ran amok, outlandish in their diverse costumes. Some were handmade, others store bought. Some were traditional—ghosts, vampires—others more contemporary—cartoon characters and, surprisingly, superheroes. Walter saw more than a few miniature Nite Owls, along with numerous other masks he'd seen featured in the news. The children ran in clusters from house to house, trailed by amused and harried parents.

"Trick or treat!" "Trick 'r' treat!" "Trick or treat, smell my feet—"

Danny stared at them with eyes as wide as her father's. Chloe smiled. She parked the car at a convenient curb, then tugged her husband's sleeve. "C'mon."

They left the car and approached the first house. Danny squirmed impatiently until her father set her on the ground. Gripping his fingers, the toddler made her unsteady way down the path leading to the house. In her other hand she clutched the handle of a plastic jack-o-lantern bucket. It swung dramatically due to her wobbly gait. When they finally reached their destination, Danny stared up at the house's strange facade.

The front door's lintel was festooned with fake cobwebs from which plastic spiders dangled. Chloe pressed the doorbell. It's ringer was replaced with a pipe organ tune heard in many a campy horror flick. _Dada-DAAAH! Da-dadada-daaa-daaaaah!_ Chloe laughed. Walter pursed his lips as if resisting a grin. Danny looked around in search of the funny music's source.

The door creaked open and a tall man with green skin and a band of stitches encircling his crown loomed in the entryway. "You rang?" he croaked.

The height should've been a clue. Nevertheless, it took a moment for Walter to recognize Henry Dobbins. His jaw went slack as Chloe almost doubled over with mirth. Danny waved her plastic bucket. "Twick-a-teet?"

"Certainly," rumbled Henry, still in character. He reached into a cauldron he carried and slowly withdrew his hand, clutching a couple of cellophane-wrapped lollipops which he then dropped into the girl's bucket. _Clunk._ "Will there be anything else?"

Chloe, snorting back more laughter, managed to reply, "That'll be all, Lurch."

Only then did Henry slide out of the undead butler's persona and flash a grin. He held out his arms, displaying his handiwork. "Wadda you think, Chlo?"

"I think you've finally found your niche in life."

"Twick-a-teet!" Danny waved the bucket. _Clunka-clatter._

"Well, don't you look darlin'?" Henry smiled, an oddly soft expression on such a gruesome face. The little girl grinned back fearlessly. Henry's gaze turned to the silent redhead. "Having a good time, Walter?"

Shrug. "Only just started."

Chloe smiled, put an arm around his shoulders. "We're having a blast."

"You're lucky. We still hafta wait at least a year before Seth will be old enough."

"Twick-a-teet!" This time it sounded like a demand.

Chloe laughed. "Guess we'd better head for the next one. Happy Halloween, Hank."

"Happy Halloween, Chlo. Walter." The tall man bowed to the toddler. "Danny."

"Buh-bye!" Danny waved her arm, clattering the bucket's contents yet again as she toddled off under her father's gentle guidance.

They went from house to house, confronted with all manner of costume and Halloween-themed festoonery. Chloe and Danielle were having the time of their lives, but Walter felt out of his depth; not unlike his experiences when he first came to the rustic town. It was all so nice, and he knew he could never fit in. His sense of displacement grew as the evening wore on. Wasn't anyone aware than in just over a day from the tragic moment when fifteen million people lost their lives? Did they even care? Instead of mourning, their children cavorted around in ridiculous outfits begging for candy, and the adults were all smiles and laughs. As if everything were normal.

When the plastic jack-o-lantern bucket became too heavy for the girl, Chloe took over carrying it. When Danielle's inexperienced legs grew tired, Walter picked her up. The sun was low, hidden behind the nearest houses, and the air grew cooler. People's breaths showed in puffs of vapor.

Chloe shivered, zipping her jacket up to her chin. "We'd better head back after this last house."

Walter nodded.

As they approached, another group arrived from the opposite way. Among them was Fallon, which meant Alvin was amongst the children milling around in a tight cluster to conserve warmth. Walter scrutinized the masks and made-up faces. As if sensing his gaze, one of the short figures broke off from the group and stepped towards him.

Chloe's eyes widened. Walter froze.

"Hi, Walter. Lookit what Mama made for me!" Alvin twirled like a model on the runway, and the hem of his little trench coat fanned out. His head was concealed under a white stocking mask with a black pattern painted on the face, topped with a floppy wide-brimmed hat in place of a fedora. It was both audacious and utterly ridiculous.

Chloe gaped at the sheer audacity of the boy's costume. Her eyes darted from Alvin, to the silent Fallon, to Walter, and back to Fallon. They shared a look that said, _Here it comes._ Whatever it might be. They waited, tense, for Walter's reaction.

It wasn't what they expected. He laughed. Not loudly or for very long, but there was no mistaking it for anything but humor. Looking at that little Rorschach made him somehow understand. Grief did no one any good when the thing they sorrowed for could not be changed. It wasn't about forgetting the past; it was accepting it and moving on, creating good memories to eclipse the bad. It's what Chloe did after losing Byron. It was what the Harrisons were trying to do now. And it was what Walter should be doing with his child.

"Um…" He regained his composure. "It's very nice."

"Everybody says it's the coolest one." Alvin boasted.

Danny giggled and reached for the boy's mask, well out of her stubby arms' reach. She liked the black pattern on the white; it looked like a black butterfly.

A chill breeze swept in, making everyone shiver. Walter hugged his daughter closer. "Should go home before she gets cold."

"Yeah," Chloe agreed. She smiled at Alvin and his dad. "Happy Halloween, guys."

"Happy Halloween!" Alvin chirped, then trotted up the path to the next house. Fallon nodded to the family and hurried to follow his son.

"They're doing better," Walter remarked.

"I hope so." Chloe shivered. "Lets hurry back to the car. It's getting icy out here."

Cradled in the safety of her car seat, in the warm vehicle, Danielle soon fell into a doze. Chloe glanced at her in the rearview mirror, then turned her gaze to her husband. "Did you enjoy it?"

He gave it some thought. Nodded. "I enjoyed seeing Danielle have fun."

Chloe chuckled. "Elsie's gonna be mad. I hardly took any pictures."

Walter smirked. Impulsively, he leaned in to plant a quick kiss on her lips. Chloe raised an eyebrow. "Trying to get us in a traffic accident?" she teased.

"If I wanted that, I would have done this." He ran his hand slowly up her thigh.

Chloe swallowed, forced herself to pay attention to the road and tried to ignore the rise in her pulse. "What's gotten into you?"

"I'm happy."

"Oh," she laughed, "So _that's_ what it is. No wonder I couldn't place it." She took her right hand off the wheel to grasp his. Their fingers interlaced, a small gesture promising more later on. Walter leaned back in his seat with a sigh. He was already looking forward to next year and what would be his and Danielle's favorite holiday together.

* * *

NEW YORK

Lately, on these long patrols alone, Nite Owl found himself thinking about Rorschach. Memories would surface in no particular order, for no reason other than his subconscious seemed to think they mattered.

"Hate Halloween."

Nite Owl looked at the copilot seat's occupant in surprise. "You run around in a costume every night and you don't like Halloween?"

The taciturn mask snorted. "Night when all the animals come out, indulging in destruction and greed."

"Sure. Trick-or-treating and smashing pumpkins. How dare those kids have fun." He veered Archie around a tall building. Down below, a motley group of youngsters dressed as pirates scuttled past.

Rorschach suddenly punched his shoulder, hard enough to feel through the body armor.

"Hey!" Nite Owl exclaimed, "You trying to make me crash this thing?"

In answer, Rorschach pointed to something ahead and to their right. Nite Owl peered in that direction and saw the plume of smoke, the flickering glow that could only be flames. "Aw, hell."

Archie swooped down to the site of the night's chaos. A group of drunk teens in cheap rubber masks pranced around a burning van. A middle-aged man in deliveryman's coveralls lay in a crumpled heap a few feet away. Nite Owl couldn't tell if he was badly injured.

Most of the teens scattered when the Owlship landed, but two or three stayed behind to gawk. The two superheroes debarked from the vessel. Nite Owl hurried to the downed man. He seemed alright, save for a nasty bump to the head. Still, it might be a good idea to get him to a hospi—

"Get th' fuck off me, y' freak!"

Nite Owl's head jerked up. Rorschach had a struggling teenaged boy in a leering old man mask by the arm. The boy raised a mostly empty whisky bottle with the obvious intent of using it as a bludgeon. Nite Owl leapt towards the struggling pair, but before he even made it two steps, Rorschach drew back a fist and smashed it into the boy's masked face. There was an unpleasant crunch and blood spewed out of the mask's rubber nostrils. The bottle fell from the boy's grip and clattered on the pavement. Despite the fact that he no longer held a weapon, Rorschach punched the boy in the stomach.

"Rorschach!" Nite Owl dashed forward and grabbed his partner's arm before he could land another blow. Rorschach snarled, turned on him, and for a brief instant Nite Owl thought his friend might hit him. But Rorschach froze instead. Only his mask remained active, roiling in patternless rage.

"Let him go," Nite Owl said in as calm a voice as he could muster. After a second's hesitation, his partner released his grip on the teen's shirt and the boy tumbled to the ground, choking, and curled into a fetal position.

Rorschach shook off the other vigilante's grip. "Getting soft," he growled.

"'_Soft_'? For Christ's sake, he's just a kid!"

"My dad's an attorney," the kid wheezed, "He's gonna sue both your asses."

"Shut up!" Nite Owl snapped. His anger towards Rorschach must have affected his voice, because the boy clammed up immediately. Nite Owl turned back to his unrepentant partner. "What the hell's gotten into you? You were always rough with people, but now it's like you don't even need an excuse to beat everyone to a pulp. Ever since that kidnapping—"

Rorschach was in his face so fast Nite Owl stumbled back a step. "Do not ever mention the Roche kidnapping," his friend hissed; a low, hateful sound. For the first time since they'd met, Nite Owl was truly afraid of his partner. He swallowed. "We need to get the deliveryman to the hospital. He might have a concussion." He decided not to mention the fact that the teen might need some medical attention as well.

Rorschach snorted. "Take him yourself." He turned and stormed off, disappearing into the night. Nite Owl didn't even try to call him back.

In the distance, he heard several children's voices rise in the age-old phrase, "Trick-or-treat!"

Nite Owl shook off the unpleasant memory of their falling-out. Maybe if he hadn't backed off, if he'd insisted on finding Rorschach some kind of help for whatever happened during that kidnapping case…

He could imagine what Silk Spectre would say to that: _Maybe you shouldn't drive yourself crazy over something you can never change._ Right. Rorschach was gone. One good thing to be said about that was he wasn't hurting anymore.

Nite Owl's throat tightened. "Hell with it." He turned the Owlship around and headed for home.

* * *

Laurie had never stayed home to pass out candy on Halloween before. She was dismayed at the number of superhero costumes she was confronted with. There were little Stonewalls in cardboard armor, little Jehus in plastic helmets and bodysuits, little Nite Owls, and even little Silk Spectres (and the sight of so many prepubescent girls in those skimpy costumes unsettled her. What parents in their right minds would let their daughters run around like that?).

"Don't they all look lovely?" Sally Jupiter cooed as the latest batch of youngsters retreated with their sugary plunder. "All those fabulous Silk Spectre costumes."

Laurie rolled her eyes, her unspoken question answered.

A pair of arms reached around from behind and wrapped themselves around her waist. Laurie barely suppressed a yelp of surprise.

"Trick-or-treat," Daniel nuzzled her ear, "Can I have some candy?"

"You're home early," Sally remarked, one eyebrow quirked. "Don't tell me things are slow out there. Even in my day, Halloween was one of those nights when all the loons came out."

Dan sighed, releasing his wife. "There's plenty of other superheroes out there tonight. I wanted to spend some time with my family for once."

Though troubled by the melancholy in his eyes, Laurie smiled. "I'm glad." She kissed him, which seemed to cheer him up a little.

"Where's my boy?"

Sally hurried to the portable crib and lifted the tiny bundle out. "Here he is. Isn't he adorable?"

Dan burst into laughter. The infant was dressed in a onesie patterned like a black and white cow, complete with a hood with ears and little horns. The baby's expression was far from amused.

Laurie shook her head in disgust, though she couldn't suppress a smile of her own. "Mom insisted."

"Oh, come on! It's Halloween! You're _supposed_ to dress up." Sally tweaked a floppy cow ear, eliciting another laugh from Dan.

"_We're_ not dressed up," Laurie pointed out.

"Sure we are," Dan said, surprising her. He grinned. "We're dressed up as normal people."

Laurie chuckled, shook her head. "Nobody'll ever recognize us, that's for sure."

Daniel took his son from his mother-in-law. He cradled the half-asleep infant in his arms. _He's growing so fast._ And Dan was missing it, spending so much time out on patrol, searching frantically for a villain who's unknown motive could very well have already been satisfied. But there were still rumors of the Banshee. As much as they varied, from outlandishly paranoid to eerily plausible, they all had one detail in common; the Banshee was only warming up to one final disaster. A disaster that could very well affect the entire city. The persistence of this rumor could not be ignored by any superhero. As much as Dan regretted the time away from his family, he needed to ensure they all had a future, especially his infant son.

But not tonight. Tonight was for trick-or-treaters and silly costumes, and spending time at home. Wally burbled and snuggled closer to his father. Dan smiled. He might not know what Banshee had to gain from his voilence, but Daniel sure as hell knew what he himself had to lose.


	14. Love and Remorse

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

* * *

NEW YORK

The last costumed children said their hasty thanks and ran off into the night. Laurie shut the door with a weary sigh. "I can't believe people let their kids out so late."

Daniel, lounging in the couch with their son curled up in the crook of his arm, smiled. "It's a special occasion."

"Sure. It'd be real special if some freak got hold of 'em."

Dan rose, careful not to wake the baby, and went to his wife. "You okay?"  
Laurie shrugged. "I guess. It's just…tomorrow." She didn't need to go any further.

Dan nodded in understanding. Then, almost casually, he mentioned, "Tonight's two years since Hollis was killed."

Laurie gaped. "Oh, god! How could I even forget that? Dan," she went to him, put her arms around him, careful not to squash the infant between them, "I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's fine." Dan tried to keep his tone light, and failed. "He was just one person. You were thinking about millions."

"But he was your friend." Only someone who grew up without any could understand how precious real friends were. She kissed him, meaning only to give him comfort, but then it deepened and Laurie experienced a sudden flare that shocked her. They hadn't made love since Wally was born; hadn't had the time to give it much thought. Laurie suddenly realized how much she missed it. Dan must have felt the same way, because when they drew apart she saw his cheeks redden.

"Um," Dan stammered, "We should put Wally to bed."

"Right." She glanced around. "Where's my mother?"

"In her room." A faint smirk appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Said she was tired."

Laurie felt a grin spread across her own face and repressed the urge to giggle. _God, what are we, fifteen?_

They took their son to his room and gently placed him in his crib. Despite the growing arousal between them the couple took a moment to gaze down at their baby as he snuggled under the blanket Dan pulled over him. A tiny thumb went straight into his mouth and he began to suck contentedly.

Dan put an arm around his wife. "He's growing so fast."

"I can't even imagine what he'll be like as he grows up." Laurie met her husband's gaze, then they smiled and headed for their own room.

"I missed you," she whispered as their mouths connected. Dan started to unfasten her jeans. She tried to wriggle out of them, only to lose her balance and topple, laughing, onto the bed. She kicked her jeans off the rest of the way. Her bare legs hung over the side of the bed. Daniel knelt, reached over to hook the waistband of her panties. Laurie arched upward to let them slide off more easily. "I'm actually nervous," she chuckled unsteadily.

Dan grinned. "That makes two of us." He removed his glasses and set them aside, then gently spread her knees apart.

Laurie gasped at the first touch of his lips. "Oh..." She rested her hands against the back of his head, wordlessly urging him. Her moans and soft cries made Dan's own excitement grow until he knew he couldn't wait any longer. He struggled out of his pants and joined his wife on the bed. Her arms and legs went around him, so tight he thought there might be bruises the next morning. He slid into her without effort and thrust into her again and again, too close to climaxing to take it slow. That was alright with Laurie; she was every bit as eager as him. They reached their peak seconds apart from each other, and afterwards they lay in a tangle of limbs, still half dressed.

"Laurie," Dan murmured, "I missed you, too."

Laurie felt more contented than she had in a long while.

"That ended too soon," Dan muttered tiredly into her shoulder.

Laurie grinned. "We could make another go of it."

Her husband groaned. "I think I'm getting too old. I don't have the stamina." He shivered as Laurie slid her foot up and down his leg.

"Clearly," she grinned mischievously, "that's not the case." She felt the evidence of his arousal pressing against her thigh. He chuckled and kissed her, a slow melding of lips and tongues. When they parted, his expression grew sober. Laurie frowned. "What?"

"I have to leave early tomorrow morning. There's gonna be rallies and demonstrations all over the city. Some of us," and by _us_ he meant other masks, "think the Banshee might make a move."

Laurie's face grew troubled. She'd thought much the same. So had the cops; they were bound to be out in record numbers, even for a day as emotionally charged as All Souls Day. "You won't be in costume, will you."

Dan shook his head. "None of us will. Each of us is going to a different gathering as civilians. Try to keep out eyes peeled for anything suspicious."

"That'll spread you pretty thin."

Dan shrugged. "What else can we do?"

What else, indeed. Laurie kissed him again. "Let's not think about that now," she whispered, pushing him until he was on his back and she lay on top of him. "Let's pretend you're not too old."

Smiling, Dan helped her out of her shirt. "I'm definitely game."

They were awakened once in the night by their son's crying. Dan went to take care of him, and the rest of the night they slept in each others arms undisturbed. It was one of the most peaceful moments they could remember.

Laurie was surprised to discover herself alone in bed the next morning. She rose with a groan, checked the baby's room to find the crib empty, decided to indulge in a long shower before going downstairs. Clad in a bathrobe, hair wrapped in a towel turban-style, she descended the steps to find her mother bottle-feeding Wally in the living room.

Sally looked up at her arrival. "Well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living."

"Good morning to you, too, mother." She glanced around, saw no sign of Daniel anywhere. Disappointed, she stated, "He already left."

Sally nodded. "About an hour ago. Strange seeing him go out the front door like an ordinary person."

Laurie moved to sit beside her mother and gazed down at the infant suckling away at the bottle. "He could've at least woke me to say goodbye."

"I told him as much myself," Sally shrugged, jostling her grandson who made a faint sound of protest, "Sorry, sweetie. Dan said you needed your rest," she continued, then snorted. "He's one to talk. If those rings around his eyes get any darker he'll have to change his name to Nite Raccoon."

Laurie mustered a smile at her mother's levity, but her heart wasn't in it. The television was on, the morning news inundated with with footage of rallies, protests, memorials, taking place not just in New York, but in every city around the world that suffered losses in the attack two years ago. And her husband was in the thick of it, alone.

_I should be out there with him._ Her conscience ate at her for such a thought. She regretted not being out there, not just because she worried for Daniel, but because, in all honesty, she missed the life. She missed putting on that ridiculous costume and going out at ungodly hours to fight the continual mayhem of the city. She missed it so much there were instances—brief, terrible microseconds of thought—where she regretted even having a child and all the responsibilities that came with him. But she made a promise to herself and, more importantly, to her son that she would never return to that life. No matter how incomplete she felt now, she resolved to keep that promise.

But still… _I should be out there._

Sally looked from the corner of her eye at her daughter's troubled face and felt as if she could read every regret and doubt in her expression. Should she tell her now? Sally scrutinized the younger woman with surreptitious care. No, not yet. She would only get angry and storm off at this point. But soon.

* * *

_Will it happen today?_ The thought echoed through all the masked adventurers' minds; the fear that the Banshee would strike his most devastating blow on this day, November 1st. _Will it happen today? Will more people die before we can stop it?_

There were countless gatherings throughout the city; demonstrations, memorials, survivor reunions. Some consisted of groups of a few dozen individuals, while others contained audiences numbering thousands. Among the latter, the superheroes, shed of their disguises, blended in with the crowds, eyes open for anything remotely suspicious. But there were only so many vigilantes to go around, and the Banshee could very well attack one of the gatherings they were unable to observe.

Nite Owl drew the short straw and wound up mingling with the crowd at the rally for the Temple of the Azure Way, dressed in a pair of jeans and a brown plaid shirt; not Nite Owl this time, but Dan Dreiberg—or rather, Sam Hollis. It was easy to tell the curiosity-seekers from the true believers; the latter wore medallions around their necks with the hydrogen atom symbol associated with Dr. Manhattan. They also possessed that feverish look seen in many religious fanatics throughout history. One of them handed Dan a flier, indigo letters on sky blue paper: _God's Second Son, Born of Man's Science_, and a simple line drawing of Dr. Manhattan hovering in his cruciform pose. Dan snorted. He could just imagine Jon's reaction to all this nonsense. The last thing the hyper-evolved man ever would've claimed to be was a god or messiah. This Temple was a joke.

Up on the newly erected stage, a young man strode towards the podium. All eyes turned to him, numerous camera lenses brought him into focus. More than a few news programs considered the increasingly popular cult worth at least a few minutes' airtime. The young man smiled, tapped the microphone to check if the sound system was on. Dan half expected to hear the whiny feedback one always heard in every movie and TV show, but of course, that didn't happen.

Satisfied, the young man leaned in and spoke in a slick baritone, _"_Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention, please?" As if he needed to ask. All the aimless milling about and chatting had ceased, people's gazes riveted to the stage. The young man smiled in satisfaction. "It is my great pleasure to introduce the founder of the Temple of the Azure Way, Sister Blue."

A handsome woman in her late thirties with shoulder-length blonde hair generously salted with strands of white mounted the steps of the stage and approached the podium (or pulpit, as she thought of it) as her announcer stepped gracefully aside. Sister Blue smiled benignly at her congregation. When she spoke, her voice was rational, reasonable, and filled with compassion.

"You know me," her words carried through the sound system, emerging from the massive speakers set up along the stage, "Many of you are here because you are followers of the Way. Many of you are here because you are curious, probably wondering what kind of crazy woman started this wacko cult."

Her followers chuckled and shook their heads, while the curiosity-seekers blushed or glared in defiance. Sister Blue looked at them all with the same friendly smile. _She's good at putting everyone at ease,_ Daniel thought, impressed with her poise. Were it not for the tattoo on her forehead, he would almost believe she was sane.

"Two years ago," she continued, "I was just another New Yorker hoping to get through each day with a minimum of fuss. I kept everyone at arm's length, including my family and the neighbors I'd lived beside for years. I lavished affection on my cats. I cheated on my taxes. I had a series of empty, loveless relationships with empty, loveless men. I avoided the news programs and kept my head in the sand.

"And then, one night while I lay in bed, I woke to a blinding blue-white light. Oh yes, we all know what it was, and I was one of millions who witnessed it firsthand."

She lifted the mic from its stand and moved away from the pulpit. With her free hand, she lifted her long skirt to afford everyone a better view of her legs. There were several gasps in the audience. Sister Blue's legs were a pair of stick-thin metal prosthetics. She could just as easily have gotten a pair that looked more or less natural, but the self-proclaimed priestess understood the importance of shock value when stating her case. Already she saw faces that showed hostility seconds before transform into expressions of sympathy. They would be more willing to listen now.

"The wall of light pushed its way through my apartment building so fast I could do nothing but huddle in terror under the blankets. But it stopped just short of taking my life as it had so many others. Fate showed me mercy, at the cost of my legs."

People sighed, murmured. Their expressions showed how fresh the tragedy was for them, how heavily it weighed on their minds.

"We all know what happened that tragic night. It took many long months before I understood why."

Sister Blue let the skirt drop. Her posture straightened, a look of determination appeared on her face and her voice rang out, clear and strong. "In 1959 a miracle occurred. God had sown within the minds of brilliant men the creation of a new form of energy, so that one man could be transformed into something greater. His mortal name was Jon Osterman. The name bestowed on Him by our government was Dr. Manhattan. But in our hearts, we who follow the Way know the truth. This was no man altered by circumstance; this was God's messenger on Earth. The Second Coming. The new Messiah. Here to show Man the error of his ways, to save us all from ourselves. His presence staved off nuclear annihilation. His influence pushed back the Communist threat in Vietnam. His thoughts could transform the universe! And yet, He could not change human nature."

She shook her head, sorrowful, profoundly disappointed. "We were given a miracle and we exploited it. We turned an ambassador of peace into a weapon. For decades we let ourselves sink deeper into complacency and decadence, and when we grew bored with Him, we attacked Him with _baseless_ accusations, saying that His very presence was poison to those around Him. He offered us a glimpse of the divine and we spat in His face!" Droplets flew from her lips. Veins stood out from the sides of her neck, pulsed beneath her tattooed symbol. Now she looked like the fanatic Dan knew her to be, but he seemed to be the only one who felt that way. Even the other skeptics were moved by the woman's passion and ground their teeth in rage at the injustice Dr. Manhattan endured. Daniel shook his head in dismay. She was better than good; she was a master at playing the crowd.

"We had our chance at Paradise and we threw it away, just as Adam and Eve did in the Garden. We have squandered every gift bestowed upon us like spoiled children, snatching it all up and demanding 'More! More!'" Her voice suddenly dropped, her body stilled. A dramatic pause. "And our Lord," she murmured, "for all His divinity, finally had enough. In his His wrath, he struck out at us like the ungrateful breed we are, and turned His back on this world. Humanity finally convinced Him that we are not worth saving. He has left us to our doom.

"Even now, despite the harsh and justified punishment we incurred, we continue our slide into damnation. Nations still eye each other with suspicion. Gangs still roam the streets. Crime and violence still abound. Our leaders grow fat off our labors. Law enforcement is riddled with corruption. Masked vigilantes run freely through the streets, striking down the innocent with the guilty indiscriminately. The good," she declared, "are very much outnumbered by the wicked.

"But," her voice dropped even lower, causing the people in the crowd to lean in as if there were no speakers to enhance her every word, "there is still hope. We who remain untainted by the evil which surrounds us, _we_ can band together. _We_ can show our Lord that there are still those on this Earth worthy of redemption. _We_ can prove to Him that we have seen the light and understood its meaning. The light of purity. The light of the Azure Way! No longer shall we tolerate this degenerate society. We must purge evil from this world and restore it to its ancient glory. A pristine world, unspoiled by the grasping hands of Man. Together we shall bring about a new Eden!"

A roar of voices, cheering, waving. Sister Blue waited a few minutes until the sound abated. "Only then," she concluded, "will He return to lead us to the glory of Heaven!"

The people bellowed with even greater fervor. Even many who came to this rally thinking it was all a load of hot air joined in. Daniel stood amidst this display and hoped to hell Sister Blue was running some kind of scam; there was nothing more dangerous than a True Believer.

Dan was unaware that he wasn't the only one in the crowd who did not participate in the cheering. Another figure stood unnoticed on the outskirts of the audience. None saw the tightly clenched fists, nor heard the words uttered in a hoarse snarl: _"You lying bitch."_

* * *

JUBILATION

A plastic cube sat before her, its topmost face riddled with holes, each a different shape. Numerous plastic blocks lay scattered beside the cube, each one a shape which corresponded with the holes on the cube. Danielle looked at these objects in dismay.

On the opposite side of the cube, seated cross-legged on the floor, Walter reached out and picked up one of the blocks. He showed it to his daughter, a triangle shape. He brought it to the triangular hole, showed her how the shapes matched, then he let go and the block disappeared. _Clunk._

Danny blinked. She picked up the cube, which was as big as her head, and shook it. _Rattle rattle._ She grinned. She liked things that rattled when she shook them. But then her daddy gently pulled the cube away from her and set it back on the floor between them. He picked up a square-shaped block and handed it to her. Danny examined it with a puzzled frown, gave it an experimental shake. No rattle. She brought it to the cube and tried to wedge it into the hexagonal hole, but the block wouldn't cooperate and disappear like the other one did for her father. Frustrated, she threw it aside with an angry "Ba!" The block tumbled and came to rest a few feet away.

"Think she might be a tad young for that, Walt?" Elsie asked from her seat on the couch.

Walter threw a scowl over his shoulder, but the older woman was unimpressed. "Supposed to stimulate her mental growth," he retorted, quoting the words on the toy's packaging.

Elsie smirked. "I think the designers had older kids in mind, like two-year-olds. Danny's still only one."

"I know how old she is," Walter grumbled stubbornly, "Craig gave it to her. He thinks she's old enough."

"And what does Craig know about toddlers?"

"He's a teacher."

"He teaches grammar school! That's a whole world away from babies, Walt."

Danny flung a trapezoid at him. It bounced off Walter's shoulder. He sighed, started to gather up the blocks.

Elsie rose from the sofa and went to stand beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Relax, Walt. We all know she's a smart cookie. Takes after her momma's side of the family," she added smugly.

Walter gave her a dirty took, but she wasn't fooled. He finished collecting the blocks and rose to put away the educational toy. His gaze wandered to the TV screen and he paused, the perpetual crease between his eyes deepening. The morning news was showing live coverage of one of the many gatherings occurring throughout the world. This particular one was a rally for that cult Walter heard about. There was that lunatic woman with the tattoo on her face, stirring up the crowd to a fevered pitch. The image wobbled as the cameraman was jostled by some of her more ardent followers.

Walter went to pick up the remote from the coffee table and flicked to another channel. Another news program, another rally, but this one consisted of families of those survivors who committed suicide in the weeks following the attack. Angry people making unreasonable demands for some sort of retribution against Dr. Manhattan. As if anyone knew how to find him, or could do anything to him once they did. As if he were responsible. Walter switched off the TV, tossed the remote onto the table, then turned to see Elsie's sympathetic look. He shrugged. "Nothing on worth watching."

"Guess not."

She moved to take the toy from him. "I'll put this away. You just keep spendin' the quality time with Danny." She headed up the stairs to her grandniece's room. The toybox was situated under the window. She put the cube away, stared at the rest of the box's contents until her eyes alighted on an object that brought a smile to her weathered features. She picked it up and went back downstairs, found Walter playing with his daughter. Danny covered her eyes with her hands. Walter gave a theatrical gasp. "Where's Danielle? Where did she go?"

Danny quickly pulled her hands away. Walter's eyes widened. "There she is!"

The toddler laughed, covered her eyes again. Her daddy sighed. "Oh no. She's gone again."

Elsie stifled a laugh. Good lord, what would people think if they found out Rorschach was alive and playing peekaboo with his baby girl?

They looked up as she approached. Elsie lowered herself into a sitting position on the floor, grimacing slightly at her protesting joints, and held up the object she found in the toybox. Danny beamed. Walter groaned. Elsie handed the object to her grandniece, flashing a smug grin at the redhead. The toy was a squat cylinder with a simple picture of a farm scene stenciled around the outside. Danny eagerly accepted it from her great-aunt, clutched it in both little hands, and upended it.

_Moooo!_

Danny giggled in delight. She turned it rightside up, then tipped it over again to hear the drawn-out lowing. Walter knew from bitter experience that she could be entertained by that thing for what seemed like hours at a time. She shook the cylinder. _Moo-ooo-ooo!_ It sounded like a depressed cow with hiccups. Walter snorted, amused in spite of himself. "This is ridiculous."

"Well, granted, it ain't as sophisticated as peekaboo." Elsie smirked.

The redhead drew himself up. "Was only humoring her."

"Sure, Walt. You weren't having the least bit of fun."

"None in the slightest." His mouth twitched.

_Whuff!_ The muffled sound of Nixon announcing someone's arrival surprised the two adults. They exchanged puzzled looks, wondering who would show up without calling first. Seconds later the front door opened and Chloe entered.

"Well!" Elsie's eyebrows went up. "What gives, Chlo? You forget something?"

Chloe tossed her car keys onto the ledge by the door, kicked off her shoes, and sauntered into the living room. Her movements were casual, but her brow was furrowed. "Lila told me to take the day off."

Another look between Elsie and Walter. "What for?" a wary Elsie asked.

Chloe paused, pursed her lips. "I don't feel like talking right now." She headed for the stairs. "I'm gonna go change out of these scrubs."

They watched her ascend the steps, troubled by her behavior. Walter glanced at his daughter, still occupied with her noisy plaything, looked at Elsie. The older woman nodded; she would look after the child. Walter stood and followed his wife. He found her in their bedroom. She'd removed her scrubs top and was rummaging in the dresser for a T-shirt. That worrying expression was still on her face.

"What's wrong?" Walter asked.

Chloe turned to him, hugging a folded shirt to her chest. She bit her lip, shrugged. "All anyone's talking about is the attack. It's all I've heard all morning. I dunno, last year it just didn't seem real enough. But now…" Another shrug. "I was getting some fresh gauze from the supply closet and the next thing I knew, I was crying. Lila found me, told me to go home. Said she'll call me if she needs help later." She fumbled with the shirt, trying to unfold it, and it dropped from her hands. "Dammit," she sighed without conviction, bent to pick it up and felt a touch on her shoulder. Her throat tightened around a lump that burned like acid. She left the shirt where it lay, straightened, and put her arms around her husband.

Walter returned her strong embrace. He stroked her shoulder-length curls. "It's okay."

"I just…I thought I was handling it, you know?" She sniffed. "I thought I could just stop myself from remembering."

Walter closed his eyes and felt the sadness return. The sadness he managed to hold at bay while playing with his daughter. And the remorse. "Don't think we'll ever learn to handle it."

We. That's right, Chloe reminded herself, she wasn't the only one with the bad memories. Walter's were far worse. She drew back to gaze into his eyes, cradled his face in her hands. She saw worry and sorrow in his ocean-blue gaze. Chloe kissed him lightly. "I'm alright."

"I know." Walter smiled. "You're the strong one."

She chuckled wryly. "I thought _you_ were the tough guy."

He shook his head. "Wouldn't need you so much if that were true."

A sad smile appeared on her face. Chloe leaned forward to rest her forehead against his. "I love it when you do that."

"Do what?"

"Show me how vulnerable you really are."

A faint, amused sound. "That's a good thing?"

"You trust me. Just like I trust you."

Yes, he trusted her, more than anyone in his life. More than Daniel, even, who for the longest time was the only person he could call a friend. But Walter never showed Daniel the face beneath his mask.

Walter's lips brushed against hers. "I love you."

A light touch deepened into a kiss. Their embrace became almost painfully tight, yet neither of them wanted to let go.

"I don't wanna think about that day," Chloe whispered when the kiss ended. Her breathing was husky with repressed sobs. "I don't wanna think at all."

Walter understood. All the times his wife comforted him, now was his chance to do the same for her. He kissed her again and gently steered her towards their bed. Neither of them spoke. They stumbled to the bed, shedding their clothes along the way. Then they clung to each other with the same desperate need to give and take comfort in their closeness. Their bodies joined with familiar ease, and soon they were lost in each other.

As Walter moved inside of her, Chloe gazed up at him, into his intense stare. She wanted to draw him into her with all her senses; the scent and taste of his sweat; the feel of his skin, the feel of his weight atop her, and the feel of him inside of her; the sound of his labored breaths; the sight of him, the spray of freckles across his nose, the sadness and the love in his eyes. God, she felt so alive. Not the faded ghost she felt herself becoming moments ago with the memories of so many dead crashing through her mind. _We're alive,_ she thought with gratitude as she felt her climax approach.

She saw his eyes widen an instant before she came. Back arched, eyes squeezed shut, she cried out in release and heard her husband's voice mingle with hers. Then they went limp and they lay together, him atop her, their bodies still joined.

Chloe ran her fingers through her husband's red hair. "Thank you."

"For what?" he asked, head pillowed against her chest.

"For being here."

Walter inched forward and slowly nuzzled the side of her neck, moved further up to kiss her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Chloe turned her head and their mouths connected in a slow, deep kiss, tongues and lips caressing.

"I love you," she whispered against his lips. She felt them stretch into a smile.

"I love you, too."


	15. Guilt and Selfishness

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters. Nor do I own the musical works of the late, great Jimi Hendrix, specifically the song "Wind Cries Mary."**

* * *

JUBILATION

Chloe lay with her head pillowed against her husband's shoulder, stared at the rise and fall of his chest. His skin was so light she could see every blue vein that traced its wandering path like a mapped-out river. Yet she had to almost squint to see the myriad scars she knew were there. Faded mementos of Rorschach's chaotic life. So many she doubted Walter could even recall how he got most of them. Chloe's fingertips traced a particularly long and jagged scar beneath his collarbone. Either a serrated blade or a broken bottle did that, was her clinical thought, even as a hint of sadness crept upon her. She pressed her lips to the scar, then whispered, "Can't we just stay here all day?"

Walter smiled, eyes closed in a semi-doze. He was tempted to take her up on it; to hide from the world and lock out all its unhappy reminders for a few hours. "Why not?"

His wife sighed. "No. That wouldn't be fair to Elsie, asking her to watch Danny while we lounge in bed."

Walter kept silent, but he knew she was right. It would be selfish to stay in their room.

"We should get up now," Chloe said without enthusiasm.

"Yes."

Neither of them moved.

Chloe tried again. "Right now."

"Absolutely."

A long, drawn-out pause.

Chloe snorted. "This is getting ridiculous."

Before Walter could respond, there came a knock at their door. "You kids decent?" Elsie's muffled voice intruded.

Chloe groaned, rolled out of the bed. Walter felt a chill on his shoulder where her head had rested. He pulled the blanket over himself while his wife put on her bathrobe. Chloe hurried to the door, tying her sash. She pulled the door open, but made sure it blocked the view of the bed, knowing how uncomfortable Walter would be to have his aunt-in-law see him, even covered up. The sight which greeted her made her eyes widen slightly. "What's all this?"

Elsie grinned. In her hands was a tray containing two plates of lasagna reheated from the previous evening's dinner. Down by her knee stood a very proud Danielle. While her auntie slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor, smiling encouragement, Danny had scaled the mountainous steps all by herself, hoisting herself up on hands and knees until she reached the very top; an activity which, had they known, her parents would have thrown a protective fit over. She'd then risen unsteadily to her feet and toddled after the old woman to her parents' bedroom door. She beamed up at her momma, who looked very puzzled by their arrival.

Elsie held the tray up. "Just thought you two mighta worked up an appetite." That remark earned her an annoyed look from her niece, and she could just imagine how embarrassed Walter was.

After a moment's narrow-eyed glare, Chloe responded, "You didn't have to. We were coming right down—"

"Well, looks like I just saved you a trip." Elsie cheerfully foisted the tray onto her weakly protesting niece.

Meanwhile, a curious Danny squeezed past her mother into the room and discovered her father seated on the edge of the bed after having put his jeans on. She let out a happy noise and trotted clumsily over, giggling as her daddy scooped her up into his arms. Chloe glanced over her shoulder and smiled at the sight of Walter and their child. Walter growled and pretended to bite Danny's neck, eliciting an excited squeal. Chloe turned back to her aunt, her expression softened. "You trying to keep Danny all to yourself?" she asked, only half joking.

Elsie shrugged. "You're obviously much happier up here than you were downstairs. Who could blame you for wantin' to hide away for a while? Confronting bad memories ain't always the best thing, y'know. Sometimes you simply gotta give yourself a break." She patted the younger woman's cheek. "No need to feel guilty. You and Walt get what you need from each other, and I'll get what I need from taking care of Danny."

Chloe's throat tightened with emotion. She gave a slight _ahem_ to clear it before she spoke. "I know I don't say this often enough, Els, but…thank you. Walter and I, we really do appreciate everything you do to help us out."

The older woman gave a dismissive wave. "_Pssht_. It's just what family does."

"I know." Chloe leaned in to plant a kiss on her aunt's cheek. "I just didn't want you to think we take you for granted."

Elsie smiled. "Take all the time you need, sweetheart."

Chloe placed the tray on the dresser then went to get her daughter. Snuggled in her father's arms, Danny turned at her mother's approach and grinned with such joy Chloe couldn't help but smile back. Despite her husband's belief that she was above such an emotion, there were times when Chloe felt a little jealous of Danny's obvious closeness with Walter, but the feeling, never strong to begin with, always faded when her daughter smiled at her like that. How could anyone stay jealous in the face of so much love?

"C'mere." She gathered up the smiling toddler. "Give me a kiss."

Danny did so, a light peck on her mother's lips. Chloe hugged her as she made her way to the door. "Momma loves you, sweetie."

"Ahv 'oo, Momma." _I love you, Momma._ The first time she said it, Chloe had almost wept. She gently handed the girl over to Elsie, then pushed the door closed, returning Danny's bye-bye wave until she was out of sight.

Chloe turned to her husband, still sitting up with the blanket drawn modestly up to his waist. "Looks like I was overruled."

Walter smiled.

As it turned out, they really were quite hungry. The food was gone within minutes and the empty plates set aside on the nightstands.

It was still fairly early in the day. Sunlight flooded through the windows, rendering the lights unnecessary. The frantic calls of birds and squirrels desperate to hoard enough food for the oncoming winter could be heard outside. All so normal. If they weren't so painfully aware of the date, Walter and Chloe might have thought it a beautiful day.

"So, what now?" Chloe asked, half playful, half anxious, "How are we gonna waste our day? Do we talk?" She could just imagine what grim subject matter would come up. But Walter shook his head, allaying her worries.

"No more talking," he said, then reached over to gently caress her face.

Elsie lifted her grandniece in her arms with a groan. "Oof! You're gettin' way too big for me, munchkin." She carried the toddler down the stairs and returned to the living room where Danny's toys still waited, scattered on the floor. The moment her feet touched the carpet Danielle raced to the nearest object that caught her attention, in this case the TV remote, ignoring the colorful child-friendly items just a few paces away. She jabbed the buttons with her little fingers and the TV flickers from one random image to the next. Bits of dialog merged into one long nonsensical sentence. _"It is time—" "—to drop everything and COME ON DOWN—" "—stairs, around the corner—" "—stalls and fifteen—" "Sense. Where is the sense in—"_

"I'll take that, young lady." Elsie gently pried the remote from the toddler's grasp. Danny briefly considered uttering some sort of protest, then lost interest and went to play with her plush squeaker toys.

Elsie glared at the television. Yet another program about the attack. She felt drained from it, all the misery and blaming, the desperate searches for some kind of reason, however outlandish. Walter and Chloe were right to hole up in their room away from all this. She switched off the TV, set the remote down on the coffee table, and went to join Danny in her innocent play, oblivious of the tragedy that beset the world before her birth.

* * *

BANSHEE

"We all need to find a reason why terrible things happen to us," the counselor said. I don't remember his name, but I recall his voice, deep and mellow. There were ten of us in his group, ten people whose bodies were no longer complete. Parts lost to accident, to disease, and in my case, to an act of sheer malice. We were all fitted with prostheses donated by Veidt Medical Research. Expensive, state-of-the-art objects designed to imitate flesh and bone. They did nothing to make us feel whole.

"We all need to find a reason why terrible things happen to us, mainly because we think it will make the pain more bearable. That's fine, if it works and does nothing to hamper your psychological recovery. But it leaves you all vulnerable to ideas you never would have considered before. You find yourselves dependent on them, like a crutch, and then you can no longer function." The man was fond of lectures. None of us minded listening; it saved us from having to speak ourselves.

He was trying to warn us of the cults springing up. Some said my savior was God, others the Devil. Some believed he would return to finish what he started, or to carry off the faithful to someplace better.

Did he really think I was that gullible?

The counselor meant well, but he was a fool. All he did was plant the seed in _her_ mind. That Bitch who stole other people's grief and passed it off as her own. So smug. She invited me to her first rally, and in my obsession to find answers, I went, thinking I had nothing to lose but a little time. Her audience was a ragtag group barely large enough to fill the room she'd rented. And how they hung on her every word! She knew how to influence a crowd and still does, but when I heard the things she said all I felt was rage. I screamed my accusations at her. She only smiled, calm and very sane, while I raved and spat and was carried out by two strong men who had no qualms over showing a cripple some rough treatment. They left me with a split lip and swollen eye. I hardly noticed the pain, so consumed was I by my anger. I picked myself up, wiped the blood from my face, and hobbled back to the flophouse where I stayed at the time. I lay in bed, listening to the groaning bedsprings and muffled grunts from the next room, and allowed my anger to fuel my thoughts.

The cold war between America and Russia was over, imminent nuclear war forestalled, and because of that people thought the world was getting better. They are the gullible ones. The world before and after the attack can both be summed up by the same word: injustice. It was this defining characteristic that drove my savior to do what he did. He was not a god, he was just a man who possessed the power I lacked to lash out at the world as I wished I could. I thought if I had even a fraction of his strength, I would not have been so kind in my revenge. I would have continued to strike until not a single human being remained on the earth.

And that's when I remembered my research. I am grateful to my savior, for opening my eyes to this world's corruption; for showing me that the human race is past saving. I named my weapon the Voice to mock That Bitch's twisted religion; the Voice of God, which none can bear to hear. They thought they glimpsed Armageddon. I will bring them far more than a mere glimpse.

* * *

NEW YORK

Watching the overenthusiastic ranting of the sweaty man on stage, Zachary was suddenly grateful to be deaf. Spittle flew, hands flapped spastically, the unfortunates closest to the sound system winced in discomfort. Zach could just imagine the garbage coming out of that kook's mouth.

He tore his gaze away from the stage and continued to sweep the audience for suspicious individuals. Problem was, they _all_ looked suspicious. It seemed as if every flake and schizo was out in force attending this demonstration. Zach was beginning to suspect he and Josh could easily be counted as one of them. What did they hope to accomplish? Did they seriously expect the Banshee to attack this absurd gathering? If Nite Owl's suspicions were true and the Banshee was out to make some kind of statement, he could do better than to kill off the Brotherhood of the Reconstruction, whoever the hell they were supposed to be. All Zachary could make out was that they were led by that loudmouth on the stage and wore yellow berets.

He turned to his brother, tapped him on the shoulder. "See anything?"

Joshua frowned and cupped a hand to his ear. _What?_

Zach rolled his eyes, leaned in, and shouted, _"See anything?"_

Josh winced a little, then shook his head NO. Zach wasn't surprised. "We're wasting our time here!"

Joshua was reluctant to agree, but he had to admit they didn't seem to be accomplishing anything. If Banshee had planned to attack one of these gatherings, he would have done so by now. Whatever the supervillain's motivation, it appeared to have nothing to do with the anniversary of the attack. Josh sighed and gestured to his brother to follow him. This particular demonstration was already winding down anyway. They might as well try someplace else.

The two men drifted away from the milling crowd and struggled with feelings of uselessness. Nothing would be accomplished this day.

Zach tapped his brother on the shoulder. "I wanna meet your girlfriend."

Josh stared at him, caught off guard by this abrupt demand. He pulled out a notepad and pencil from his back pocket to scribble his response. _What brought this on?_

"What? Is it so weird I'm curious about the girl my brother's shacking up with?"

_You never cared about my other girlfriends._

Zach snorted. "Yeah. All two of them. They were just flings and we both know it. But with this Jenna chick, it seems pretty serious."

Josh gave him an annoyed look. _It __is__ serious._

"See, that's why I wanna meet her."

Lips pursed in thought, Joshua slowly wrote, _Not sure that's such a good idea. She's bound to figure out who you are._

"You mean besides being your brother?" Zach smirked.

Josh frowned. _The less she knows, the safer she'll be._

Zachary mulled this over. "So…it's not because you don't trust her."

It could barely be called a wince, just a flicker of movement around the eyes and lips, but Zach saw it. In a rare show of tact, he didn't remark on it. But his silence spoke volumes.

Morning soon elapsed into afternoon, which began to creep into evening. The various gatherings throughout the city soon dispersed, unmolested. The superheroes that had spent the entire time in their everyday guises could not help but feel disappointed by the day's anticlimactic end, and worried over what might yet occur at some other time.

Back in the apartment she and Joshua shared, Jenna sat at the kitchenette table poring over the used textbooks she'd bought for her classes. It would not be long before she earned her GED and could move on to more advanced lessons. Jenna discovered a heretofore unknown talent for numbers which gave her the idea she might make a good bookkeeper. It was the sort of thought she wouldn't have had the nerve to voice a few months ago, fearing ridicule. But it seemed that ever since she met Josh a new sense of confidence came over her. She pored over her lessons, trying to blot out her worry. Josh was out there now, weaponless and without his mask. An ordinary man searching for a dangerous mass murderer in broad daylight.

The stereo blared music from her Hendrix cassette. Jenna couldn't bear to listen to the radio, fearing she might pick up a news report and hear the worst. So the timeless voice of the singer and his guitar filled the apartment, distracting Jenna from her fears like it always did.

_After all the jacks are in their boxes_

_And the clowns have all gone to bed_

_You can hear happiness staggering on down the street_

_Footprints dressed in red_

_And the wind whispers Mary_

Jenna hummed along to the slow tune as she jotted down her notes. She didn't hear the click of the door latch, didn't turn to see two figures enter the apartment.

_A broom is drearily sweeping_

_Up the broken pieces of yesterday's life_

_Somewhere a queen is weeping_

_Somewhere a king has no wife_

_And the wind, it cries Mary_

_The traffic lights they turn up blue tomorrow_

_And shine their emptiness down on my bed_

_The tiny island sags downstream_

_'Cause the life that lived is, is dead_

_And the wind screams—_

"Jenna."

A startled squeak erupted from her and she turned so fast she nearly fell from her chair. "Jesus! Josh, don't sneak up on me like that."

"Sorry," he said, though he couldn't hide his amusement. Nor did the taller man who stood a little ways behind and to his right.

Jenna rose from her seat, went to turn down the volume on the stereo. She then turned to face the two men. "Who's your friend?"

Josh and the stranger exchanged a look. The man's expression seemed almost a challenge, while Josh's was a mixture of guilt and resignation. He turned back to his girlfriend with a sigh. "This is Zachary. My brother."

Jenna's face lit up. "Really?" She turned to Zach. "I'm so happy to meet you!"

Zachary smiled, but didn't respond. Josh hurried to explain, "He lost his hearing recently."

He could see it creep into her eyes, the recollection that he'd mentioned the wounding of his partner from Banshee's sonic weapon. "Is he…?" she didn't need to finish the question.

Joshua nodded. "Yeah. He is."

And then she understood his hesitance. He already thought she knew far too much which could put her in danger. As if ignorance could protect her should the Banshee decide to attack the city. But despite his worries, he decided to trust her with his brother's identity. As did Zach himself.

The taller brother stepped forward, hand outstretched. "Hi."

Smiling, Jenna took his hand in hers. His grip was warm and not too firm. "Hi."

Joshua watched the two people he loved most meet for the first time and hoped it wasn't a mistake he would come to regret.

* * *

_Will the wind ever remember_

_The names it has blown in the past_

_And with this crutch, its old age, and its wisdom_

_It whispers no, this will be the last_

_And the wind cries Mary_


	16. Instinct and Reason

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

* * *

NEW YORK

When Nite Owl and Rorschach teamed up, back when putting on a mask and kicking criminals' asses seemed to make a difference, it turned out that the differences in their characters was what made the partnership work. Rorschach tended to make these strange deductive leaps while Nite Owl focused on logical reasoning, and the end result was often the same conclusion for them both. Though she'd vehemently deny having anything in common with Rorschach, Silk Spectre displayed the same trait at times, looking at a problem and voicing the first thought that came to her mind, at times with startling accuracy. Nite Owl didn't realize how much he'd grown to depend on that characteristic; his partner stating a solution while he figured out the rationale. Now he was on his own. He had to learn what came naturally to others; he had to learn to listen to his gut.

There was a crush of people eager for the chance to speak with Sister Blue after her fiery speech. Daniel somehow managed to elbow his way through the press of bodies until he encountered the circle of broad-shouldered, imposing men that held the crowd at bay until Sister Blue nodded her assent. The Temple founder did so as she dismissed a starry-eyed girl from her presence. Dan squeezed past the bodyguards. He didn't have to fake his breathlessness; getting to her had been a chore. He widened his eyes in his most guileless expression and gushed, "You were amazing!"

Sister Blue flashed the beatific smile that seemed to come naturally to her expression. "Thank you."

"I mean," he flailed his hands like a star-struck 15-year-old girl meeting her idol, "the stuff you said up there, it made so much sense!"

"Of course," she replied smoothly, "It is Truth." Dan actually _heard_ the capital T.

"I'd like to learn more."

The woman held a bundle of brochures in her hand. She separated one from the stack and gave it to him. "Read this. It lists our most sacred tenets. If you choose to believe, we will be holding another rally next week. One far larger than what you've witnessed today. You are more than welcome to attend."

Dan clutched the folded sky-blue paper to his heart. "I will."

As he walked away, his gut told him he was on the right track. There was a connection between the Banshee and this strange cult. His logical mind just needed to figure out what it could be.

He returned home to find Laurie and Sally arguing as they gave Wally a bath.

"You have to keep his head dry until the very end," the older woman chided.

Laurie growled in the back of her throat, a sign of frayed patience. "And how many baths have you given a baby?"

"None," Sally confessed without embarrassment, "But I watched your nanny bathe you dozens of times, and she _always_ saved your head for last."

Wally blew bubbles through his lips and slapped his arms against the water's surface, splashing the two women. Both made nearly identical _aaugh_ sounds which set Dan to laughing.

"And what's so funny?" Sally demanded, hands on hips and soapsuds clinging to her cheek.

Dan shook his head. "Not funny. Refreshing." It was good to witness something so innocent. It eased the tension he'd carried throughout the day.

Laurie dabbed herself with a towel and passed it over to her mother. She shared a look with Dan; a silent question. He gave the slightest nod in response. _We'll talk later._

He withdrew into the living room, plopped down in an easy chair and pulled the brochure out of his pocket. Most of what he read was pretty much the same rhetoric he'd heard at the rally, word for word in places. But towards the end there was information regarding the new rally Sister Blue mentioned. It wasn't just going to be another gathering; the Temple planned to march through downtown all the way to the doorstep of Adrian Veidt's tower. To the Temple, Veidt represented all those who exploited their blue messiah's gifts for his own ends. They had no idea how right they were, Daniel mused. Sister Blue was clever, scheduling another rally so soon after All Souls Day so that the memory was still fresh, without the competition of all those other groups and organizations. Instead of hundreds, their numbers could wind up well into the thousands, not just from believers, but passing gawkers wondering what all the noise was about.

His stomach twisted; a sensation he remembered from the moment when Rorschach informed him of the Comedian's death. He had no evidence, nothing to clue him in to this dreadful thought, but he couldn't ignore it; Banshee was going to attack the Temple's march. Why that particular group of religious nuts, Dan had no idea. But it felt true.

Laurie arrived, their son resting against her shoulder, swaddled in a towel. She took a seat on the ottoman in front of Dan and raised her eyebrows in another unspoken question. _What happened?_

"I think I've figured out what the Banshee's been working up to." He told her of his suspicions.

Laurie frowned. "Don't you think you're jumping to conclusions?"

"Maybe," he conceded, "Doesn't mean I'm wrong."

"Doesn't mean you're right, either," she countered.

Daniel suddenly laughed. "Shouldn't this argument be the other way around?"

Laurie smiled and gently shifted Wally over to her other shoulder. Her hand stroked the infant's back through the pale terrycloth of the towel. "I guess I might've gotten the same idea in your place." There was a sadness in her voice when she said this.

Dan touched her other shoulder in sympathy. "You know you can come back," he said, meaning her work as Silk Spectre.

She uttered a humorless laugh. "You and my mother. Sometimes I think you two are conspiring to get me to hire a nanny."

"There's an idea," Daniel smirked.

Laurie sobered. "No."

Her husband nodded. "'Kay. Then maybe I should quit, too."

"Yeah, right."

"Right." His tone was level.

Laurie raised her eyebrows in surprise. "You're serious?"

"Yeah. You quit because you don't want to miss out on Wally's childhood, and now I'm thinking I don't either." He shrugged. "There's plenty of other masked fools out there. One less won't make a difference."

"You used to think you made plenty of difference." It wasn't an accusation, just a statement of fact.

Daniel responded, just as reasonable, "Guess I finally grew up."

Laurie stood, moved to sit on her husband's lap, the baby still cradled against her. Dan's arms encircled her waist and she rested her forehead against his. "When are you hanging up your cape for good?"

"After this Banshee case." They both knew it would forever haunt him if he didn't see this through. But once it ended, whatever the result, he was resolved to join his wife in retirement and raise their son together.

* * *

JUBILATION

That Sunday, all anyone seemed to want to talk about was the Temple of the Azure Way. Sister Blue had made quite an impression with her speech, which was aired and re-aired over various news broadcasts. Walter escaped to the playground with Danielle even quicker than usual and Chloe was about ready to join them.

"…just a buncha hokum, far as I'm concerned," Deb Blascoe declared, "Callin' that blue freak the next Christ."

"Blasphemy," Bess Everton spat. She turned to Myra Birdsong, who'd remained conspicuously silent. "What d'you think, Myra?"

The pastor's wife shrugged. "I see no reason to dignify the subject with debate. It's only a cult made up of sad, desperate people who're tryin' to find easy answers for their hurts and wrongs. In a few years it'll be gone and forgotten."

"Not sure how easy they'll be t' forget," Elsie remarked, "You all hear about that march they're planning?" Her question caused a fresh spate of gossip. Chloe decided she'd heard enough. She made a casual exit, unnoticed by the chattering group, grabbed her coat from the rack, and headed outside.

Her breath clouded in the chilly air. Chloe shivered, zipped up her coat. The cold did nothing to deter the children in their play, however. They scrambled over the playground equipment with their usual screaming enthusiasm. Chloe looked around until she saw the familiar redhead standing by the swings, hands in his coat pockets. Danny was in one of the toddler swings being pushed by Alvin. The toddler laughed in excitement, flapping her arms with the apparent expectation that she might take off like a bird. Chloe grinned and went to join her husband, linking an arm in his. Walter glanced at her, then returned his attention to their daughter, watchful despite the fact that Alvin was careful not to push the swing too hard. The fact that he remained on the sidelines spoke volumes of his trust in the boy.

After a moment of watching Danny's enthusiastic play, Chloe abruptly said, "We should get a tire swing."

Walter looked at her, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. "Tire swing?"

"Yeah. Y'know, tie a rope to an old tire—"

"I know what it is." The corner of his mouth quirked upward. "I meant what for? Danielle's too young."

"She's growing fast," Chloe countered, "And it'd be nice to have a tire swing at home. Fits in with the whole rustic look." She grinned.

Walter made an amused sound, then looked thoughtful. "Could hang it from the apple tree when it gets taller."

Chloe bumped his shoulder with hers. "That's the spirit."

Alvin grabbed the swing's chains and halted its arc. Danny looked at him over her shoulder in confusion.

"C'n I take her to the merry-go-round?" the boy asked.

Walter looked uncomfortable. He turned to his wife, who gave a slight nod. "Not too fast," he cautioned, then helped his daughter out of the sling. Alvin took the girl's hand and gently guided her over to the merry-go-round. There were only a handful of other kids on it, and some of them cleared out once they realized the toddler's presence would hamper their desire for speed.

The couple watched their daughter slowly go round and round, as thrilled as if she were going a mile a minute. A cold breeze swept through the playground.

"Couldn't take the heat inside?" Walter suddenly asked, a faint smile on his face.

Chloe sighed. "All anyone wants to talk about is that stupid cult. Even Elsie's in on it!"

"Media's hyped them," Walter remarked, "People like a freakshow."

"That woman creeps me out. The one who founded it." Chloe shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe it's that tattoo on her forehead, I dunno, but something about her just seems _wrong_."

"Whole situation's wrong." And that was when she saw the worry in his eyes; the worry she'd thought was solely for their daughter's wellbeing.

"What's wrong, baby?"

He pursed his lips, wondering if he should tell her what had been eating at him all morning. Chloe moved to stand before him, slid her arms around his waist. He saw the concern in her hazel eyes and relented with hardly a struggle. "The gathering that cult plans to do."

She nodded. "The march downtown."

"Think something is going to happen."

Chloe tilted her head in thought. "Where'd that idea come from?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. I just feel it."

"Gut instinct?" She didn't mock it. Chloe knew Walter couldn't have survived as long as he had without a finely tuned sense of impending danger. But now there was nothing he could do about it. New York was a long way off, and he wasn't Rorschach anymore. Chloe couldn't think of anything more frustrating than knowing something bad was about to happen and being unable to prevent it. She tightened her arms around him, felt his own arms encircle her.

"There might be others with the same feeling," she said, meaning other masks.

The suggestion failed to comfort him. "Made no difference when Veidt attacked."

"History doesn't always repeat itself, Walter."

Danny's giggles drew their attention. The toddler had left the merry-go-round and led Alvin on a merry chase through the playground.

Walter shook his head, amazed. "How can she run so fast? She barely keeps her balance."

"Guess she just doesn't worry about falling," Chloe laughed softly.

He looked at her, sobered. "Can't help these worries I feel, but I'm trying not to let them damage what we have."

"They're not," his wife assured him, "This family's tough enough to handle your worries and then some. I just wish there was some way we could ease them for you."

Walter kissed her forehead. "Guess the only way is to wait and see."

Neither of them looked thrilled by the prospect.

* * *

NEW YORK

Nite Owl was glad to see most of the same masked faces had returned for this next meeting. He knew it would be a difficult task to convince them of his suspicions, but knowing did not lessen his frustration.

"Why the hell would the Banshee wanna attack that buncha fruitcakes?" Stonewall demanded, armor clanking with impatience.

"The march is bound to draw a huge crowd," Nite Owl reasoned, "One more centralized than All Souls Day. It'd make an almost ideal target."

"That's what you said about All Souls Day," Jehu snapped, "I wasted the whole day hanging out with every religious nut and conspiracy theorist that came outta the woodwork."

"You said yourself that you have no proof," Shadow Dancer reasoned.

"I don't," Nite Owl agreed, "And I can't force you to go along with my plan."

"Damn right you can't," Stonewall grumbled.

It was then that the Archer spoke, _"The Bowman and I trust our instincts. Our instincts say Nite Owl is right; the Banshee will strike during the march."_

"For Christ's sake," someone muttered.

Another mask spoke up, a burly woman in gray coveralls who called herself Haze, who until that moment had merely been a bystander through the heated talks. A fence-sitter, as some called her behind her back. But when she spoke, her tone was decisive. "I haven't heard any better ideas from anybody. 'Til I do, I'm goin' with Nite Owl's plan."

Others began to utter the same sentiment until the naysayers grudgingly fell silent. Nite Owl nodded. "Okay. We need to work out the best way to cover the entire march without getting spotted by either the cops or the Banshee."

And so the long night passed with a great deal of plotting, debate, and argument, until they ironed out a strategy for the upcoming event. First, they would scout out the route the march would take, both the day before in civilian clothes and the night in superhero guise, checking for suspicious individuals. Who knew? They might catch the Banshee in the process of planning his attack. But if they didn't, the superheroes would also be present during the actual march. Some would be in their civilian clothes again and participate in the march itself, while others in their masks and costumes would patrol along the tops of the buildings to either side, all of them keeping their eyes peeled for the frumpy-coated figure witnesses recalled from previous attacks while at the same time avoiding detection by the police who would undoubtedly be present.

"Needle in a haystack," Stonewall muttered, "This plan ain't any better than what the pigs'll be doing, and _they _won't be trying to avoid _us_."

Nite Owl had to agree. The odds of catching the Banshee—should he even be there—before he attacked were incredibly slim. But it was either that or walk away, and that went against their natures as masks.

"No offense, man, but I hope to hell you're instinct's wrong," Jehu said.

Nite Owl nodded. "Me too."


	17. Lies and Truths

**A/N:** OMG, I've finally updated! I am so so sorry I haven't posted anything in so long, but I'm afraid I suffered a nasty bout of writer's block. But now, thanks to a few persistent readers, I finally gave myself a decisive kick to the behind and started typing again. Thank you all for your boundless patience.

I had one hell of a time figuring this chapter out. The POV jumps around quite a lot, but I figured that might fit with the frantic nature of the incident.

* * *

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Watchmen characters.**

* * *

BANSHEE

I prepare myself for the final confrontation. All my gear is strapped on and charged, but the protective helmet remains on the table. I will not need it anymore. This will be my last use of the Voice, and the reason for its creation.

Outside, the cold penetrates the layers of clothing, gear, and flesh, to freeze the marrow of my bones. My nose begins to run. I wipe it on the sleeve of my coat, see the dark stain on the already soiled fabric. The tremors in my hands are more obvious now. All to my advantage; no one would suspect someone so obviously frail.

The streets seethe with people eager to take part in this occasion. Some because they believe, some because they are bored and have nothing better to do. People hold up signs depicting my savior alongside oversized photos of That Bitch, the false prophet. I hope to see her in person. To confront her head on, see the recognition in her eyes before I flip the switch for the final time. That is the reward I seek for all my pains.

Revenge. What purer motive is there?

* * *

JENNA

Last night Jenna found herself doing something she hadn't done since she was a little girl; lying beside Joshua in their darkened bedroom, she prayed. Now she watched in silent anguish as Joshua donned his Headhunter costume for what could possibly be the last time. He then turned to her, his mask clutched in his hand. His expression softened and he approached her. "It'll be okay," he said, cupping her face with his other gloved hand. His thumb stroked her cheek. Jenna didn't respond, just nodded. Josh leaned in to plant a kiss on her lips, then drew away and pulled the mask down over his head. The mask made him a stranger to her.

There were no goodbyes. Joshua stepped through the window onto the fire escape where his brother waited, also in costume. As she stared at them through the gritty windowpane, the possibilities raced through Jenna's mind. Perhaps, if the Banshee made an appearance, they would be able to shoot him down before he had a chance to activate his weapon. Or perhaps they would be captured by the police, or struck down by the very weapon they were going to confront. Perhaps Jenna would find herself alone again, abandoned by someone she loved as she had been throughout her troubled young life.

She had argued with Josh about her going to the rally. "Please! I can't take it if something happens to you and I'm not there."

"And I couldn't live with myself if something happened to _you_," Josh responded, equally adamant. "If something _does_ go wrong, I have to know that you're safe. Promise me you'll stay home," he said, cupping her face in his hands.

Jenna tried to look away, but his grip was too firm. He stared intently into her eyes. Jenna finally relented, tears running down her face, hating herself for giving in. But she made a promise, and she always kept her promises. She would stay in the apartment, far from the rally and whatever doom awaited it.

Josh and his brother were talking out on the fire escape. Oddly, it seemed Zachary was the one reluctant to be on their way. Jenna frowned, wondering what they could be discussing at a time like this. Then Zach's arm made a sudden movement and Josh was on the ground, the metal fire escape ratting under the impact of his fallen body.

"Josh!" Jenna rushed to the window, climbed out onto the fire escape to kneel beside her unconscious boyfriend. Zachary, crouched on the railing with the uncanny agility so many masked adventurers displayed, spoke to her in the Bowman's eerie voice, _"He'll be alright. By the time he wakes, it will all be over."_

A small dart penetrated Joshua's chest, its black coloring blending into the costume so that Jenna almost missed it. She pulled it out of him, looked up at the other Headhunter in dismay. "Why?"

Though unable to hear her voice, there was no mistaking that simple question.

_"Because it's what he wants."_ And with that, Zach leapt gracefully from his perch, vanishing over the edge. Jenna hurried to peer over the side, but found no sign of him either above or below. Even in daylight, the Bowman knew how to remain unseen. Jenna went back to her boyfriend, started lifting him to drag him back through the window into the apartment. Though not a large man, Joshua's dead weight proved difficult for the petite blonde to handle and by the time she finally got him back inside her face was flushed and she gasped from the effort. She decided to leave him on the floor for the time being and went to fetch a pillow and blanket from the couch. Once she made sure he was comfortable, she divested him of his gear, then tenderly peeled off his mask. Joshua's face was almost serene. Jenna bent down to kiss his forehead. "Thank you," she whispered to the long-gone Zachary. She could only hope she would have the chance to say it to him in person, after.

* * *

ZACHARY

He watched from the fire escape's balcony as his brother said goodbye to his girlfriend. Most people thought Jenna was the fragile one, but Zach knew, as only a brother could, how much of a toll this was taking on Josh.

It had always been a game to them; the masks, the weapons, the trophies. They weren't out to make the world a better place, they just wanted to do something exciting and dangerous. Something people would talk about in awed voices, wondering who the Headhunters could be? How many of them were there? What was their message? And he and Josh would smirk at each other over their cleverness. Two pranksters out to screw with the entire city.

Then everything seemed to change at once. Zach lost his hearing. Joshua fell in love. And suddenly they discovered it was no longer a game. Zach knew it was his fault; he kept pushing them to play the game long after Josh's enthusiasm began to wane. Joshua had always gone along with whatever his older brother wanted, not out of any sort of adolescent hero-worship, but because Josh was the kind of person who would stick by you no matter what his reservations. He was doing it now, heading out to a likely death because Zachary wanted to catch the bastard who took his hearing from him. Leaving his girlfriend behind, perhaps forever, just to help satisfy his brother's need for retribution.

As long as he could remember, Zach had always taken advantage of Josh's loyalty.

Joshua kissed his girlfriend, put on his mask to become the Archer, and slid out the window to join the Bowman on the fire escape. _Let's go_, he gestured. The two of them were in the process of learning sign language. Already they had mastered a few of the simpler phrases, ones useful for them during their Headhunter activities.

"Something I wanna ask you first, bro," Zach said, not bothering with his Headhunter whisper. He wondered how strange it was for his brother to hear his normal voice through the Bowman's mask.

Even though he couldn't see Joshua's face, the shorter man's stance showed his puzzlement.

"Would you still be going on this suicide run if I wasn't?" Zachary asked.

Joshua went still. It was a stillness Zach had seen many times throughout their childhood; a stillness that said they both knew the answer already.

Zachary shook his head. "Don't suppose I could convince you to change your mind, stay here with your girlfriend?"

His brother made a gesture; not sign, but it still got his point across: _You know better than that._ Once Joshua made his decision, he stuck to it come hell or high water.

"That's what I thought." And in a move so rapid it seemed a blur, Zachary raised the little air-powered tranquilizer gun which the Headhunters so seldom used and fired a dart into his brother's chest. He saw Josh's eyes widen in shock an instant before the fast-acting drug took hold and his knees buckled, dropping him in an untidy heap on the fire escape's metal grating.

Beneath his mask, Zach's mouth curved in a sad smile. "You're welcome."

* * *

LAURIE

Laurie examined the owl-headed helmet her husband had cobbled together. Built inside was what appeared to be a large set of headphones. "You really think this'll help block out the weapon's sound?"

Dan shrugged as he changed into his Nite Owl costume. "They work for the screecher, and that's the closest thing I have to Banshee's sonic weapon."

Laurie thought about the Banshee's victims, the bulging eyes and ruptured blood vessels. The helmet seemed like flimsy protection. "I hope you don't have to find out whether it works." She handed it to Daniel.

"You and me both," he muttered, tucking it under his arm. His free hand pulled his cowl over his face, picked up his goggles from the table and slid them on. He saw Laurie's eyes drift towards the glass case where her costume hung. He understood her regret. It was all he could do not to ask her to put it on and come with him. Having her by his side would have eased some of his anxiety. But their son needed her more.

Laurie tore her eyes away from the case. Unfortunately, seeing her husband in full Nite Owl regalia was just as painful. This could be the last time she ever saw him. It was different when she was Silk Spectre, because at least if the worst happened they would go together. Staying behind was so much harder.

Laurie went to embrace her husband. They never said goodbye when Nite Owl went out; a minor superstition between them. They didn't say anything, just kissed and parted ways. Then Laurie went up the stairs to the house, Nite Owl up Archie's boarding ramp. Laurie heard the engines power up and the distinctive whoosh of the Owlship rocketing down the long tunnel. She reached for the doorknob…and paused. Her head turned of its own accord and brought her gaze to the costume waiting in its glass sarcophagus. Her jaws clenched, fingers curled into fists. _I'm tired of being afraid_, Daniel's words from two years ago, when their relationship was just beginning, _Afraid of this goddamned suit and how much I need it._

"Me too," she whispered. A bitter smile twisted her mouth. "Goddamn it." She opened the door and stormed through.

Sally looked up from where she played with her grandson on a thick blanket on the floor. The look of determination in her daughter's expression made her tense. "Laurie?"

"Mom, I need you to watch Wally for me." Laurie took a deep breath. "I'm going out."

Sally didn't ask questions; she knew what her daughter meant. "Okay." Only when the younger woman disappeared down the basement stairs once again did she allow herself a faint smile.

* * *

WALTER

They did not speak of the march in New York. They avoided the television, didn't listen to the radio. If something _did_ happen, they did not want to know until well after the fact. Knowing without being able to do anything would only make it harder for Walter to cope, which in turn would increase his family's anxiety for him. So they chose to bury their heads in the sand for the time being, an action Rorschach once despised in others.

Walter was grateful that it was Saturday, so that Chloe could stay home with him; and also for the steadfast presence of Elsie. He was even more grateful for his daughter. Danielle was blissfully ignorant of the adults' worries and continued to behave as she always did, with innocent enthusiasm. She did not know it, but she kept her father sane.

They spent much of the day outdoors, bundled up in their thick coats against the encroaching chill. The tiny mittens Danny wore kept slipping off to dangle on the length of string that ran into her sleeves. They flapped about like a pair of flippers as she flailed her arms in abandon, running from one distraction to the next, picking up whatever small objects caught her attention. A twig, a broad leaf, a broken feather shed by some migratory bird. One by one she carried her treasures back for the adults to admire.

_Was I ever that happy?_ Walter wondered as he saw her toddle ahead once again. There must have been a time when he too was innocent of the world's hardships, but he possessed no such memories. Not even an inkling. It seemed he'd always been dour and cynical.

A touch on his shoulder distracted him from his brooding thoughts. He turned to his wife.

"Why so melancholy? Thinking about New York?" Chloe asked, smiling as she took his hand and gave it a light squeeze. Walter squeezed back. He shook his head. "Thinking of the past."

"Why not think about the future?" she suggested, "Or don't you think things'll get better?"

"Didn't used to."

"And now?"

He turned his gaze to watch his daughter spin herself like a top, laughing as she lost her balance and toppled onto her back. Walter smiled. "Yes. Things will get better."

When the sun hung low and the temperature began to drop, they reluctantly turned back home. By the time they returned to the house, events in the city miles away had already run their course.

* * *

BANSHEE

No matter how tightly I hold myself, I am still cold. Winter has set into my bones, ice water in my veins. People glance uneasily my way. They try to put some distance between themselves and me, though there's hardly room enough to breathe, there are so many. Still, none of the huddled bodies touch me, and I am able to wend a slow path towards the front of the massive procession. Veidt's tower looms ahead, casting a shadow over the puny insects come to voice their displeasure. Does the mighty Ozymandias even know we are here? Or are mere mortals beneath his notice?

_She_ is here, That Bitch, mounting the steps so those farther back can glimpse her in her modest glory. She brings a bullhorn to her lips and begins to spout her platitudes. I do not listen. I am focused on closing the distance between us. I want her to see me before I unleash my revenge. I want her to know it was me who killed her and all these deluded fools.

On the lowest steps stands a row of brawny men in blue shirts holding the crowd at bay. Men and women reach out, pleading for the chance to bask in That Bitch's munificence. I approach one of the human fenceposts who stands farthest from my target, and is therefore largely overlooked. He glares at me impassively, his dark eyes daring me to try and wriggle by him. Like all his brethren, he wears a medallion around his neck bearing my savior's emblem. I approach him slowly, determinedly. The voices of the pleading crowd, their false prophetess's droning voice, the warnings of her bodyguards, all merge into a roaring white noise that reverberates through my pounding skull. I see the man's lips shape the words _stay back_, but there is no sound which I can distinguish. I press on. The man, who could not be more than eighteen years old, if that, lifts a meaty hand to my chest to halt my progress. I do not hesitate. I reach into my heavy coat and pull out the long filet knife I found in a dumpster not two days before and sharpened to a keen edge, and I plunge the thin blade into the man's side, sliding it between his ribs and into a delicate lung. I know this because I see the spots of blood appear on his lips as he chokes and slowly topples, too shocked to cry out. I let the taped-up handle slip from my grasp as the young man falls and continue on my way, not once breaking stride. I mount the steps to the tower's entrance where my foe stands. No one notices. They are all so enamored of That Bitch's heady words, even the ones who are supposed to protect her. No one realizes something's amiss until I am almost beside her. Her eyes widen and she stops in mid-rant, lowering the bullhorn to her side as she stares at me in shock. I grin, tasting blood in my mouth. I'm sure I must look ghastly.

"Hello, Ruth." She reacts to her real name like a slap to the face. Or maybe it's seeing how low I've fallen.

A shadow passes overhead, a shadow within the shadow of the tower. A passing airship. There is movement beyond the simple push and shove of massed adorers. From the corner of my eye I see figures push through, their shoulders set with determination. Even peripherally I am aware of the outlandishness of some of them, flowing capes and sharp colors. The city's heroes come to throw themselves in the line of fire. I pay them no mind. They cannot prevent this.

"Be not afraid," I mock, "I've come to lead you to your precious Messiah. Let me show you." I let my tattered coat fall away and reveal the beautiful device I have wrought, covering my body like armor forged from circuitry. I hold up my hand so that she can see the button sewn into the palm of my glove; the switch to activate the Voice. She opens her mouth, perhaps to try and reason with me, beg for her pathetic life. I curl my hand into a fist and feel the button depress...

* * *

NITE OWL

The instant he glimpsed the security guard's fall Nite Owl yanked at Archie's controls, sending the Owlship into a steep dive towards the stage. He quickly set the autopilot to bring the ship to a hover and leapt from his chair, grabbing his modified helmet and jamming it onto his head. No sooner did he feel Archie's sharp deceleration than he slapped the control to open the circular hatch and dove through, landing in a crouch on the broad steps of Veidt's building. Only a few paces from him, the Banshee confronted Sister Blue, who gaped in horrified recognition. The supervillain was saying something to her that Nite Owl was unable to discern through his thickly shielded helmet. All he could hear was the drumbeat of his own pulse as he started to run towards them. And then the Banshee made a fist.

The helmet saved him from going deaf those first terrible seconds, but it could not protect Nite Owl entirely from the sonic weapon's effect. His stomach twisted with almost violent nausea and pressure began to build in his body. His head and chest felt as if they were wrapped in a vise. His knees suddenly buckled and he found himself on all fours. Around him, the fallen mask saw Sister Blue and countless others writhing on the ground, hands futilely clamped over their ears and mouths wide in unheard screams as blood poured from noses, ears, and in some cases, eyes. Many already lay motionless, struck down by the weapon as swiftly as if by lightning.

And standing amidst the chaos, arms outstretched and face split into a ghastly bloodied grin, stood the Banshee. Blood flowed unheeded from the supervillain's nose, staining lips and teeth a morbid pink. The sonic weapon's power seemed to grow, flowing outward in ever-expanding waves to topple thousands indiscriminately. Police, followers, curiosity seekers, passersby, masks. The soundwaves reached them all, and all of them fell.

_Goddamn it,_ Nite Owl snarled at himself, _You've got to stop this!_ He gritted his teeth, tasting blood, and willed his limbs to function. Slowly, too slowly, he regained his feet, took a few staggering steps. If the Banshee noticed his pathetic efforts, the supervillain chose to ignore him. Nite Owl fumbled at his belt, searching vainly for a weapon. His vision blurred as the pressure became agonizing. He was seconds away from blacking out. His clumsy fingers closed around the butt of his laser weapon. He drew it from the holster, movements sluggish, gripped it with both hands and struggled to aim. But his eyes would not focus, and his arms were so heavy.

* * *

BOWMAN

It was mostly luck that had allowed the Bowman to survive the first time he encountered the Banshee's weapon. _Can't be that lucky twice_, he thought. It was the only coherent thought he had once the weapon was triggered. Being deaf already did nothing to soften the experience. Bowman's pain was every bit as intense as the first time. He sprawled atop a news van he'd leapt on, unnoticed, as it passed the building he was perched on. His mask was already soaked in blood from his nose. His reddened eyes were drawn to the cause of his pain; the Banshee standing seemingly unaffected on the stage, grinning maniacally. Hot rage boiled in him. His fingers instinctively tightened on his bow, strung and ready with an arrow already notched. He'd been a second away from putting that arrow into his target, but this proved one second too long. Now the anger did what his mind could not, displacing his agony enough for him to rise up on his knees and bring his bow to bear. His tremulous arm drew back on the taut bowstring, the wavering tip of the arrow pointed at the lone standing figure on the steps. He could not hope to aim with his usual accuracy, so he let his instinct guide him and released. The black arrow flashed over the prone victims and struck the Banshee's shoulder. There was a brief spark, a wisp of smoke, and then the weapon's deadly cry was abruptly silenced.

The Bowman grinned weakly. "Gotcha," he rasped.

* * *

SILK SPECTRE

She tried not to dwell on how good it felt to be in costume again. That damn scanty outfit she'd always complained about now clung to her body like a second skin. Once dressed, she mounted her specially modified motorcycle and raced after her husband to the rally. The helmet she wore, unfortunately, did not offer the same ear protection as Nite Owl's. She was lucky to be at the farthest edge of the sonic weapon's range. Her bike wobbled dangerously as a strange dizziness overcame her. She managed to skid to a halt without crashing and leaned over the handlebars, tasting bile in her throat as her head throbbed. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the weapon's cry ceased. Silk Spectre gave her head a shake to clear it, then quickly revved the motorcycle's engine and sped off once again. She zipped past disoriented civilians and cops who were too stunned to even consider trying to stop her.

As she neared the main body of the rally, Spectre's keen eyes took in the scene. Hundreds of people lay on the ground, some groaning and weeping, some managing to pick themselves up, and some who were sadly beyond any help. On the steps leading to the tower's doors, she saw the cult leader, Sister Blue, lay in a motionless heap. A few feet away from her stood a raggedy figure in wearing one of the strangest get-ups Silk Spectre had ever seen. The black fletching of an arrow protruded from the figure's shoulder. Nite Owl was also there, already recovering from the weapon's onslaught and rushing towards the wounded Banshee. She had every confidence that he would be able to handle the supervillain on his own, and so decided to focus her attention on the aftermath.

Something glimpsed from the corner of her eye got her attention. Spectre brought her motorcycle to a halt and stared down at the object, a black longbow. It lay on the pavement beside a white news van. Her head tilted back and she saw a black-clad arm dangling over the side of the van's roof. She dismounted and hurried to the vehicle, climbing onto its roof to find one of the Headhunters lying unconscious. Blood dribbled from his saturated mask, the growing crimson stain contrasting sharply with the van's white paint job. Silk Spectre pressed her fingers to his neck. She found a pulse, but it was faint. She raised her head, saw police and paramedics, and even some masked adventurers, all tending to the survivors of the attack. The hospitals would be packed. Also, there was the Headhunter's identity to protect. Her decision made, Spectre dragged her fellow mask from the top of the van over to her motorcycle. Her husband had made several custom modifications to the vehicle. Spectre pressed a button and a collapsible sidecar deployed. She wrestled the injured mask into the newly unfolded seat, strapped him in, and remounted the bike. She turned the vehicle and sped away, headed for the Medic's lair.

* * *

NITE OWL

He wondered how the Banshee could still be standing until he got closer and discovered the supervillain's legs were artificial, like Sister Blue's, only far more advanced models. It was when he drew near enough to see the Banshee's face that he made a second discovery; Banshee was a woman. Her face was gaunt and haggard, her eyes bloodshot. The tangled mass of brown hair on her head was streaked with gray. Blood leaked from her ears, nose, and mouth. She was staring at the arrow jutting from her shoulder with a look of dazed bewilderment. The smell of poor hygiene and burnt electronics hung around her. It seemed the silencing of her weapon took all the fight out of her. Still, Nite Owl approached with caution.

The Banshee's eyes turned towards him. She showed no reaction to his costume, nor did she seem to understand what was happening. She blinked her reddened eyes slowly and her lips moved, but Nite Owl was unable to hear her through his protective helmet. With the weapon apparently out of commission, he decided it was safe enough to risk taking the helmet off. "What'd you say?"

"The Voice," she croaked, "is dead."

"That's right," he said almost gently, "No point in carrying on now, so why don't you come with me and I'll take you to some people who can help you out."

Banshee didn't seem to hear him. Her gaunt face contorted. "It was all lies!" she hissed, "Everything that came out of That Bitch's mouth." Her finger jabbed in the direction of Sister Blue's motionless form. "And all her followers, they just swallowed up her tainted words. Spread her poison like a virus." A choking sound rattled in her throat. She doubled over, coughing up blood. Nite Owl reached out and placed a hand on her uninjured shoulder. Now that he was face to face with his enemy, the only emotion he felt was pity for this broken woman. After a few moments, she straightened and wheezed out, "Those words were _mine_. She perverted _my_ story for her own ends."

Nite Owl's eyes wandered down to Banshee's prosthetic legs. He met her gaze in understanding. "I'm sorry she exploited your misfortune. She paid for it and then some. Now you have to pay for what you did."

The Banshee stared at Sister Blue and her lips split into a ghastly smile. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. "I killed her in my savior's name." And with a suddenness that defied her weakened state, she slammed her fists against Nite Owl's chest, knocking the startled mask back. He stumbled, regained his balance, but not before the supervillain had swiftly closed the distance between herself and the fallen cult leader. She fell to her artificial knees beside the body. Her left hand reached across to the arrow in her right shoulder. With a savage yank she pulled it free, sending a fresh gout of blood spilling down her torso. Then she raised the metal arrow over her head like a dagger and plunged it into Sister Blue's chest. It did not seem to matter to her that the woman was already dead. She stabbed the body again and again, tears coursing down her horribly grinning face, until Nite Owl dragged her away.

* * *

BANSHEE

My enemy is dead. I have set the Truth free.


End file.
